Potterholics Anonymous
by Lizzy Lovegood
Summary: Have you ever written to Hogwarts or held a memorial for Dumbledore? What about putting up Wanted posters for stray Death Eaters or reenacting a game of Quidditch with broken bones? Whatever you've done, Potterholics Anonymous wants to hear about it!
1. Do You Really Know Harry Potter?

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter. I _do_, however, own the Quiz.

**A/N: **It's _finally _here! This is my chapter, later will follow other people's requests. I already have a couple of requests, so I will deal with those first.

I would like to dedicate this story to Matt (**crapmuffins**) and Derrick (who doesn't have an FF profile) for allowing me to use them in this story.

**Potterholics Anonymous**

**Chapter One: Do You _Really _Know Harry Potter?**

_Click-click-clack, click-click-clack._

Liz's fingers flew over the keys, the digits forming an intricate dance as letters formed rapidly on the lit screen in front of her. Her brow was not at all furrowed; indeed, she even appeared to be relaxed, as if this were a daily routine, just as normal as brushing her teeth or changing the number of days on the board in the corner of the room.

_Two, _it now read. _Two days._

A smile lit Liz's face as this thought suddenly intruded before beginning typing once again.

Then, inexplicably, she stopped, glaring at the screen for a second before beginning to riffle through the large text open before her. The tome was dog-eared and worn, appearing to have suffered this treatment dozens of times and, to some, would appear to be much abused.

No, it was only much loved.

The cover was worn, but it was still possible to see it had originally been made in varying shades of blue. Candles lined the walls, casting their luminescence over the entire room – and the hunched-over wizard standing in the middle of it. Embossed silver letters above the wizard read _Harry Potter _while, below him, was the author's name. _J.K. Rowling_.

"Hmm," she muttered to herself, continuing to flip the pages, eyes scanning them as fast as she had just been typing.

"What is it?" A voice intruded on Liz's thoughts and she swung to see the man sitting on the bed a few feet away. Squinting at the screen, the man tucked a wayward piece of his long hair behind one ear. "Is that the Quiz?"

"Yeah, and I can't. . . ."

"You're doing the Quiz?" Jumping the last few steps to the basement bedroom, another man went and knelt beside the computer, staring raptly at the screen; the words stared blankly back; stretching – line by line – into infinity . . . or four hundred or so. Take your pick.

"Is that the Answer Key? Are you done yet?" the visitor asked.

"_No_, Derrick."

"Well, you're on page two hundred for the Quiz," Derrick said, tapping the sidebar. "What about the Answer Key?"

"One sixty."

"So . . . tomorrow, then?"

Liz rolled her eyes. "_No_, Derrick," she repeated. "I'll have it done on that date I gave you – November eleventh . . . something or other. . . ."

"Two-thousand ten."

"Yes, that. . . . Ah ha!" Having located the correct page, Liz began to skim her finger down it, head bobbing back and forth as if to a song only she could hear.

"But Matt said you'd have it for me _today_," Derrick whined, flopping to the floor. "Waiting till tomorrow is a huge sacrifice as it is."

"Matt says many things," Liz retorted, only half-listening as she glanced at Matt now leaned comfortably against a pillow as he played Zelda. "Few of which are true. Like, remember when he told you I hated you?"

"You _do _hate me!" Derrick howled. "You are torturing me! Ahhhhhhhhh!"

As if to help ease his pain, he grabbed the sandal from Liz's foot and began trying to stuff it up Matt's pant leg. Abandoning his game, Matt batted at the dirty flip-flop before succumbing to helpless hysterics.

"Well, it _does _take time," Liz continued, attempting to glare despite the smile twitching at the corners of her lips. "I mean, there's a question for every page for Merlin's sake!"

"Ha, you said _Merlin_." Matt laughed.

"Yes," she replied, grinning slyly. "And you say _waffle_."

"_Waffle!_"

Derrick laughed appreciatively before speaking.

"Liz?"

"Hmm?" Her fingers began to dance across the keyboard again. _Answer: C – History of Magic_.

"How long have you been working on this?"

"Oh, I don't know. Wait a sec, let me think . . . since two-thousand five, so I was . . . fifteen. I think."

"Around four years, then," Matt answered, having abandoned his game.

Derrick whistled softly. "Whoa."

"Yeah,"

Liz didn't reply. Once again, her face was free of strain or worry lines and words had begun forming on the screen once again with almost alarming rapidity.

_226.) Who in Fred and George's class broke out in boils OWL year?_

_Answer: C – Kenneth Towler_

_227.) What was Fred and George's first class?_

_Answer: D – Herbology_

The words stretched on and on – line after line, question after question – onward to infinity. Or just over four hundred pages.

Take your pick.

**A/N: **This story is mostly true. The situation written above never really happened. However, I really have been writing the Quiz since I was fifteen years old . . . and it really _does _have a question for every page of text in the books. Really. I'll send it to you if you don't believe me.

I am also currently working on the Answer Key although, in retrospect, I probably should have done that along with the Quiz. Now I have to go back and get the answer for every question along with fixing my spelling/grammar mistakes. There will also be bonus sections for it – _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, _Quidditch Through the Ages_, and _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_.

It is actually a bit of a dream of mine to try and get it published someday.

The aforementioned Derrick has also expressed an interest in taking the Quiz once it's done and never ceases to bug me about it. :) So, after putting together bits and pieces of true stuff with situations that never _exactly _happened, I cobbled together this story. I hope you enjoyed it!

**A/N: **If you are interested in having your own story written (even if it's not true, you can tell me something you'd _like _to do), please leave it in a review or PM me.

And, as always _please review_!

~Lizzy Lovegood


	2. WWFD

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Harry Potter, Fred Weasley would not have died. Remus would also not have died . . . and Tonks, too, I guess.

**A/N: **I would like to dedicate this chapter to **Mrs. Sevenne-Lovegood-Weasley** since this chapter and Chapter 3 were inspired by her brilliant Potterholics stories.

I hope you enjoy your chapters, Sevenne!

**Chapter Two: WWFD**

The bright purple posters plastered the walls, running up and down the corridor so thickly that it barely left room for the pale papers advertising the annual Spring Fling or the elections for student council. A few had even been taped over students' lockers and classroom doors.

The tape was peeling in some places – as if the entire thing had been done rather cursorily – and when one fell off, it was immediately trampled by the student body rushing to and from classes. There were too many, however – far too many – to detract from the primary message . . . if only they could understand what that message _was_.

It was an April Fool's joke, that much was certain. Who would put up signs . . . like_ that _and not mean it as a practical joke? The idea of it being serious was laughable.

A few students ventured that it was an early senior prank. Not a very good one, true - after all, who could forget the Great Locker Clean-Out of last year? - but a silly prank nonetheless. This idea was immediately shot down by the high-ranking seniors. Wanting to live up to their predecessors' glory, they proclaimed to underclassmen far and wide that they would never do something so trivial.

Though they searched hard for any perpetrator – just to be able to grill them about what the signs _meant – _none was found, and the papers were attributed to some spunky underclassman, and – quite promptly – forgotten about.

_Almost _forgotten about.

There were a few solitary students – the type of students that sat in a small huddled group in the cafeteria, the type of students everyone thought to be just plain weird – that knew what the signs meant and who had done it – though they preferred to hail her as a hero rather than a criminal. But, of course, no one bothered to ask them. After all, _they _wouldn't know anything.

The incident would most likely have been forgotten about and blended into the school's not-so-prestigious history if it hadn't been for the bathroom. Well, not exactly the bathroom, more . . . the person who went into the bathroom.

Sean Hurst was not the kindest man at the best of times and right now was not exactly the best of times. To put it bluntly, Vice Principal Sean Hurst, had had a very, _very _bad day.

First, they had been out of caramel cappuccinos at Dunkin' Donuts and he had had to make do with the gunk found in the teachers' lounge. Dear God, that stuff was awful. After forcing a cup of it down, he had retreated to his office, hoping his day would improve once he was sitting behind his desk, doling out punishments to those few students who dared to misbehave under his iron palm . . . but _no_. Instead, he had had to deal with a hysterical mother screaming at him for putting her dear, sweet little Billy – or was it Joey? - in detention for doing pot on the school grounds.

You know, it wasn't as if that was illegal or anything and he'd been trying to save dear, sweet little Tommy, Billy, Bobby, _whatever _from getting a _real _punishment in the _real _world.

Then, just a few minutes ago he had had to help break up a fight between two girls, screaming about some guy who was apparently dating one while sleeping with another. He had taken a pretty good punch to the gut while doing it, too.

Sean's wife was pregnant and, right now, all he could hope was that by the time his child reached their teenage years, some sort of technology had been developed to stop them from being absolute, mind-numbing _idiots_.

He hated kids, sometimes. He really did.

Therefore, it is safe to assume that when Sean Hurst entered the bathroom to clean himself up – he was pretty sure his lower lip was bleeding now – he was not in the best of moods. His mood only decreased when he saw the large swelling on his lower lip. Great, just great.

Growling, Hurst turned – he'd just have to get some ice from the nurse's, then – to face the urinal . . . and the bright purple poster above it. Sean vaguely recalled seeing one as he had been wrestling one of the girls to the wall, but – seeing as that had been around the time he'd gotten punched – he hadn't really had a chance to read it. Tearing it off the wall, he proceeded to look it over, eyes gleaming maniacally.

_WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT _

_YOU-KNOW-WHO?_

_YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT _

_U-NO-POO -_

_THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION_

_THAT'S GRIPPING THE NATION!_

And, at the very bottom, there was a hand-written note. _In honor of Fred Weasley._

"This is just . . . just . . . totally inappropriate," Sean muttered to himself, crumpling the paper in his right hand, eyes gleaming.

At the moment, he could have cared less who this Fred Weasley character was. All Sean Hurst knew was that he had just had a very, _very _bad day and this was his way to get even.

Striding purposefully into the hall, he almost seemed to radiate menace, an insane grin lighting his face as students moved out of his way, squeezing themselves against lockers to prevent having to touch a follicle of skin.

However, as most of the population hurried off to their classes – it was dangerous to dawdle when Hurst was around – several pairs of eyes watched him enter his office and slam the door. The two girls exchanged glances as, a moment later, Hurst's deep voice reverberated around the halls, its' usual menace now magnified tenfold.

"_It has most recently come to my attention that very _inappropriate_ posters have been put up around the school. At Richardson High School, we stand for decency. _This_, ladies and gentlemen, is not decency! Whoever the culprit – or culprits – are, I suggest you come forward and explain yourselves now. If you do not, rest assured you will be found . . . and the consequences will be dire. Very, _very _dire._"

Hurst's voice was abruptly cut off by the loud ringing of the late bell and – seeing as the direct threat was now gone – students began to chatter and laugh amongst themselves as they hurried to classes. All except the two girls who continued to stare at Hurst's closed office door, odd expressions on their faces.

"Bit melodramatic, isn't he?" one of the girls – Jordan – asked, turning to her friend.

The other girl was silent, twisting a strand of dirty-blond hair around and around her finger as she continued to stare at the closed office door. For a moment, it appeared as if she hadn't heard Jordan.

"Sevenne?"

"Yeah, he is. Just a bit," the girl – Sevenne – said, appearing not to have noticed the lull in conversation at all. Then, "What do you say we tell him?"

"_Tell him?_" Jordan echoed. "You do _want _to stay alive to graduate, don't you?"

"Don't be silly. He won't kill us. . . ."

"Um . . . I beg to differ."

Sevenne waved a hand impatiently. "Oh, don't _worry_. If anything, it'll knock him off of his little pedestal for a while." A small smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

"I'm not forcing you to come, Jordan. In fact, I think Mr. R's expecting us about now." She tapped the face of her wristwatch and allowed her voice to trail off expectantly.

_Ten, nine, eight. . . ._

"Oh, alright," Jordan exclaimed, half-exasperated, half-amused. "I must be crazy, but alright. Let's go."

"You're not crazy," Sevenne reassured her. "WWFD, remember?"

"Yes, and if you haven't noticed, Fred isn't exactly normal, either."

Sevenne merely laughed before pulling open the door to Hurst's office. A cheerful bell rang as it creaked open, a startling contrast with the demonic man sitting behind his desk, filling out paperwork. It looked like a Saturday Detention slip.

At the chime, however, the man glanced up, a frown on his face. He had an icepack held against his lower lip and his nose appeared to be bleeding somewhat. Overall, Mr. Hurst looked even grumpier than he usually did – and that was saying a lot. It suddenly occurred to Sevenne that this might not have been the best idea.

_No, WWFD. Remember, _she thought, forcing herself to move the few feet to Hurst's desk.

"Shouldn't you two be in class by now?" he asked, glaring suspiciously at them.

"Yes, sir. But, we have something to tell you." Sevenne gestured between herself and Jordan, the latter who sent her a distinct _look_.

"What?" Hurst demanded, removing the icepack from his jaw.

"We – we know who put up those signs . . . sir."

Hurst glared suspiciously. "Really – who?"

Sevenne's hands shook as Hurst refused to let her break eye contact. Her eyes watered. "We did, sir."

"_What?_ Well, Miss . . . you are in . . . do you realize what you've. . . ?"

"There's a reason for it, though!" Jordan interrupted. "Really, sir, there is!"

"Oh? And what might that be, Miss Loon?"

"Um . . . well. . . ."

Hurst's glare deepened, but Sevenne could sense the jubilation radiating off of him. She wanted to sock him so badly right now, it wasn't even funny. _WWFD, Sevenne. Remember._

"It's because he was my boyfriend!" she said suddenly.

"Who was your boyfriend, Miss. . . ?"

"Witherby, sir. And Fred Weasley – you know the name on the poster – he was my boyfriend." She sniffled, hoping it didn't look too fake, and covered her face with her hands, chancing a glance toward Jordan whose gaping mouth immediately snapped shut.

"He died, sir," Jordan explained.

"Yes, and t-today was his b-b-birthday! He would have b-been eighteen t-today and we were p-planning on doing something spec-special!" Sevenne even managed to force a few tears out – _think of Fred, think of how Rookwood killed him, think of Percy, sobbing over his body_ – and she couldn't help but exude a dry sob. Peeking through her splayed fingers, she saw that Hurst's glare seemed to have softened somewhat.

"Yeah," Jordan added, "we put those posters up to honor him, you know?"

"Well," Hurst cleared his throat. "Well . . . what about the entire message itself then? What does that have to do with the deceased Mr. Weasley?"

"He died, from – from. . . ." Sevenne sobbed again, burying her face fully in her arms to give herself more thinking time. Vaguely, she was aware of Jordan patting her back and whispering soothing words. _She probably needs time, too._

"From a stomachache," Jordan explained. "We all thought it was just a normal sickness, and that it would pass, you know?"

"But it didn't!" Sevenne cried. "It turned out to be this horrible, horrible rare d-disease, and . . . and he died b-because of it!"

"I made up that rhyme because I thought it would cheer her up, you know?" Jordan explained, thinking fast. "'You-Know-Who' was Fred, obviously and then, well . . . he couldn't exactly _you know _when he had that horrible, horrible rare disease. I just thought it would be funny."

"And it was, it really was," Sevenne explained, still sniffling. "So I had the great idea to hang these around the school, so Fred could sort of . . . live on, you know?"

"Ahh," Hurst said, clasping his hands together. "I see. What horrible, horrible rare disease was it that this Mr. Weasley died from."

"I-I don't know," Sevenne said hoarsely, still wiping at her eyes, still maintaining the vestiges of grief. "I d-don't remember. I just r-remember him d-dying in my arms, and . . . and. . . ."

"It's a wonder you don't have it, then."

"Oh, it wasn't contagious." Jordan leaped to her friend's defense. "And they were so close, sir. They couldn't stand to be apart – young love, you know?"

"Yes," Hurst said, nodding, "I know. Very well, girls. You may go."

Face sill hidden safely behind her hands, Sevenne's eyes widened. She couldn't believe it – it had actually _worked_.

"Thank you, sir. You are very kind." Jordan's voice invaded Sevenne's thoughts as – in light of her friend's alleged hysterics – she spoke for them both.

Hurst nodded curtly. "Just don't let anything like this happen again, girls, or I can promise you, I will not be so lenient." He raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." Even Sevenne managed a shaky nod.

Still 'sir-ing' as if their lives depended on it, the two teenagers exited the office as quickly as they could without drawing unnecessary attention.

"Oh, my God," Sevenne began in an elated whisper once sure they were out of hearing distance. "Can you believe he actually bought that?"

"No, I really can't." Jordan cast her friend yet another distinct _look_. "I was expecting him to rip us to pieces at any moment, actually. I swear, if you _ever_ put me through something like that again, I'll. . . ."

"Stop exaggerating. You know you were brilliant."

"Was I?"

Sevenne rolled her eyes. "Come on, Jordan. Fred Weasley dying from constipation? It's an insult to canon everywhere. . . ."

"But. . . ."

". . .which, in this case, is a very, _very _good thing."

However, as the two girls trotted off to World History, congratulating each other all the while on their brilliant escape, Vice Principal Sean Hurst slowly pulled open his bottom desk drawer and – as surreptitiously as was possible – pulled out a worn, paperback book, turned to page one hundred and sixteen and . . . smiled.

"Wow," he whispered, chuckling to himself, "U-No-Poo. I gotta remember that one."

**A/N: **The stories/ideas Sevenne sent to me are purely works of fiction. This situation did not really happen and I would not recommend doing it unless you have taken Felix Felicis or have an extremely lenient principal who secretly loves Harry Potter.

Please review!

~Lizzy Lovegood


	3. Hedwig's Revenge

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Harry Potter, I would have an inflatable Remus doll. I do not have an inflatable Remus doll. Therefore, I do not own Harry Potter.

**A/N: **This chapter is dedicated, once again, to Mrs. Sevenne-Lovegood-Weasley for sending me this idea. I merely expanded upon it.

**Chapter Three: Hedwig's Revenge**

"Please?"

"No."

"Oh, come on. _Please? _It's really not that big a deal."

"Yes, it is."

"So . . . the answer's yes, then?"

"No!"

"Stop being such a worrywart, Cass. Nothing is gonna happen. Come on – _please_? Pretty please?"

"_No_, Sevenne."

"But _why_?" she whined. "It's only a little thing, really."

"You are asking me to – to _allow _you to verbally harass my customers, all for the sake of some silly protest. . . ."

"It's not _silly_, Cass, it's an owl protest. It's even relevant to what you do! Who knows, it could even give this place some publicity, Merlin knows it needs it!"

The older girl crossed her arms protectively over her Annie's Pet Zone polo, glaring at her younger sister. "I could lose my job, Sevenne," she said stiffly. "Do you know how hard it was for me to get this with the economy the way it is? I _do _have to pay for college, you know!"

"Stop freaking out, you'll be able to pay for college." Sevenne waved a hand airily.

"Not if I lose my damn job!" Cassie hissed. "I've gone along with some of your crazy stunts before, but this is just going too far."

"No it isn't! Stop exaggerating."

"I am _not _exaggerating!"

"Look," Sevenne wheedled, "you don't even have to say you know me. I won't – _you know _ - accuse you of that or anything. Okay?"

"So you'd rather be given a restraining order so you can never enter this place again, than 'accuse' me of being party to this . . . this thing. . . ."

"Owl protest and yes, I would."

"Even under threat of incarceration?" Cassie leaned forward, face grave.

"Um . . . yes?"

Crossing her fingers behind her back, Sevenne could only wait as Cassie's eyes narrowed in thought, as she drummed her fingers on the hardwood counter. . . .

"No," she finally said, making sure to draw out the monosyllabic word as long as she possibly could.

"No?"

"Yes."

"So the answer's yes, then?"

"No!"

Sevenne sighed deeply. "Fine," she grumbled.

"Fine?"

"Yes, fine. I won't do it."

"Sevenne, I _know _you."

The younger girl's eyes widened, wounded. "Does our relationship mean that little to you, Cass? Come on, I'm your sister. I promise I won't try anything here."

"You _promise_?"

"What do you want me to do – swear on a Bible?"

"No, no. It's fine . . . it's just I expected more of a fight out of you than that."

"Maybe I'm growing up."

"Maybe . . . not."

"Ha, ha." Sevenne laughed dryly. "Anyway, see you when your shift ends. I think Mom's making meatloaf."

"I'll be sure to stop by Mickey D's, then."

Sevenne laughed – more genuinely this time. "See ya, Cass."

"Bye."

"Bye."

However, as Sevenne left the store a couple of minutes later, she wasn't thinking about her mother's questionable cooking skills or whether Cassie would grab her a burger from McDonald's. No, Sevenne Witherby's brain was forming a plan.

**. . .**

**SAVE THE OWLS!!!**

**Near and far, owls suffer terrible cruelty at the hands of humans.**

**Everywhere, owls are drowned, starved, and dropped from broomsticks!**

**We must avenge our flighted friends!**

**HEDWIG, YOU WILL BE AVENGED!!!**

Grinning widely, Sevenne pinned the last paper to a telephone pole. Within the last hour or so, her simple message had almost literally blanketed the streets of the quiet suburbia. Cassie and her mother thought she was at the library, getting some summer reading done. They couldn't be more wrong . . . although the library had received a fair pile of the papers to hand out to interested souls.

All she could hope for now was that Cassie didn't freak out . . . not _too much_, at least. Sevenne knew that it would happen, it was inevitable. Cassie allowed life to stress her out so much that she was bound to break. Indeed, sometimes she could be almost Percy-like . . . Sevenne couldn't help but shiver at the thought of her sister's possible wrath.

But then again, she wasn't exactly breaking her ultimatum. _She _wouldn't be doing anything at the pet shop itself. It was only the owl protest that would be held at Annie's Pet Zone on 295 Carmichael Street at noon on the thirty-first of July. The participants themselves would – hopefully – act of their own accord.

_Oh Merlin, please let this work. . . ._

**. . .**

It worked.

People started showing up at nine – journalists who had come to cover the event, SPCA employees, college kids with WWF sweatshirts, and curious people who had come to see just what the hell an owl protest was.

However, every single one of these people – from fourteen to forty – was a Harry Potter fan.

These were the people who greeted Cassandra Witherby when she came in at noon to start her shift.

"It's insane!" her coworker, Ellen, said by way of greeting. "There were a ton of them here when I came to open the store and now look – just look! There must be _hundreds _of them!" Ellen gestured at the large crowd now stuffed into the small shop as tightly as sardines, seeping through the front doors like a tide.

"Well, that's good isn't it?" Cassie began hesitantly. "I mean, more money is always good. At least Ed might give us more hours, now."

"No." Ellen shook her head. "That's just it. They're not buying anything. I asked a few of them why they were here and they just kept going on about some protest thing. I think it's supposed to start soon and they're getting restless. I kinda took shelter behind here. . . . Do you know anything about it?"

Cassandra studied the teeming crowd, eyes narrowed. "I might," she said slowly. "Could you excuse me for a moment? I have to . . . to make a call."

"Sure. Go right ahead."

Slowly, calmly, Jordan walked into the back of the store. Slowly, calmly, she lifted the phone off the receiver and, just as serenely, proceeded to dial the familiar seven-digit number.

She answered on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sevenne."

"Oh! Cass, hi! How are you?" Could it have been her imagination or did her sister's usually confident tone sound shakier – more nervous – than usual? Cassie hoped so, at least it showed she had a _bit _of a conscience.

"I'm okay," she said, as if discussing the weather. "It's more Ellen that I'm worried about."

"Ellen? Why? Is everything alright?"

"No, not exactly," Cassie continued in that same nonchalant tone. "You see, when she opened the store this morning, she was greeted by a crowd of people. Since then, the crowd has only grown . . . they're spilling out of the store by now."

"Well . . . that's good then, isn't it?" Yup, her little sister definitely sounded nervous now.

"That's what I thought, but then Ellen told me they weren't buying anything. Apparently they're here for some sort of rally-protest thing."

"Oh. . . ."

"A rally dedicated to _owls_."

Silence.

"Sevenne?"

Indistinct mumbling.

But by now, Cassie had reached the end of her rope. "Sevenne, you answer me right now!" she cried. "I know perfectly well it was you who set this up! Now _answer me_! Sevenne, do you hear me? _Sevenne!_"

When Sevenne spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "I wasn't exactly disobeying you. . . ."

"_What? _I am this close – _this damn close –_ to killing you and _that's _the first thing you bloody say? That you weren't _exactly _disobeying me? I can't believe this, I just can't believe this!"

Ellen peered through the doorway, looking concerned, but Cassie shooed her away.

"Well," Sevenne continued, her voice still shaky, "I'm not there right now, am I? You only said _I _couldn't do anything in the store, but all _I _did was put up the signs. The public acted of their own accord."

"And this place is just pathetic enough that the entire town comes up to show their support – for _owls_."

"Hey, I promised donuts and coffee, too! Oops . . . do you think you could get Ellen to run out and get those? I'll pay her back."

"Oh, no!" Cassie retorted, half-laughing. "Oh, _no way_, little sis. _You _are going to be the one to pick up those donuts with your own bloody money . . . and then you are going to get up here and head this stupid rally thing! And, if the cops show up, _you _are going to be the one to explain the situation to them! And I am _not _going to bail you out Mom and Dad this time! _This_, Sevenne, is your own bloody fault! Do you understand me, Sevenne?"

"_Alright_. . . ." her sister replied, sounding peeved. "Alright, geez."

"Don't you _geez _me! This is a big deal!"

More indistinct mumbling before Sevenne spoke again. "Okay, you don't need to freak out. See you in a few."

"Fine. Bye."

"Bye."

Fifteen minutes later found the fifteen-year-old girl disembarking from her mother's station wagon – her excuse had been a school bake sale – balancing several boxes of donuts and a jug of coffee. One glance at the crowd and she gaped, mouth wide.

"Something tells me those won't be enough," Cassie said with a slight smirk as soon as Sevenne had reached the sanctuary of the front counter.

"I didn't know there would be _this _many people."

"I'm betting they just wanted the free donuts. Food is very good initiative, you realize."

"Hardy-har-har, you're hysterical." Rolling her eyes, Sevenne turned toward the teeming crowd, looking apprehensive.

"Weren't you expecting this?"

"Still . . . I didn't expect there to be this much of a reaction. Plus, I figured they'd fend for themselves, you know?"

"Like make owl picket signs and march on Washington?"

"You know what I mean."

Cassie only laughed. "Get out there." Placing her hands around her mouth in a makeshift megaphone, she began to shout through them.

"Attention, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the first annual Owl Rally! Here is your leader, the woman who put this great event together – Sevenne Witherby!" Sevenne had to admire her sister's charisma, even when she looked ready to kill anyone who dared to _look _at her the wrong way . . . that is, until Cassie pushed her forward into the midst of the cheering crowd, their screams almost drowning out her sister's last few words.

"I would just like to take a moment to remind you, ladies, and gentlemen, to look over our great selection of Annie's Pet Zone products. Remember – we're better than any large retailer, we're the Zone. Annie's Pet Zone. Now, I'll give the floor over to Sevenne. Thank you." Blushing, Cassie retreated behind the counter, sending Sevenne a grin and a thumbs-up.

Sevenne glared before turning to face the rather . . . _large _crowd. "Um . . . hi."

There were a couple of half-hearted salutations from the crowd. A few even raised hands in greeting. Overall, however, they looked rather annoyed, waiting for the true action to begin.

"Well, I'm sure you all know why you're here today. To – to protest owl mistreatment."

Once again, muttering issued from the crowd. Sevenne could only suppose they had expected something other than a teenage girl to head a rally of these proportions, but how had she been supposed to know there would be this much of a turnout?

Hundreds showing up for an owl rally at a tiny pet shop . . . what were the chances of that? She definitely should have planned for this or, better yet, not done it at all. What had she been _thinking_?

The answer was, she hadn't been. But maybe she could now. As Sevenne racked her brains, however, the crowd had grown still more restless – murmuring sullenly while casting Sevenne and Cassie irritated glances for dragging them all the way out here. All for nothing.

Finally, when it looked as if things were about to get ugly, someone spoke – loud and clear – his voice floating over the entire assembly.

"Hedwig, you will be avenged!"

And then . . . it was like a spell had been broken. Slowly, slowly, the sullen muttering ceased, to be replaced by soft chanting – chanting that steadily grew louder.

"Hedwig, Hedwig, Hedwig. . . . "

Other names joined the din.

"Errol!"

"Hermes!"

"_Pigwidgeon!_"

"Hedwig, you will be avenged!"

It was – in a strange way – rather awe-inspiring. Soon enough, Sevenne – almost involuntarily – found her own voice joining the crowd's mantra – one out of hundreds.

"Hedwig, Hedwig, Hedwig. . . ."

Glancing hesitantly toward the front counter, Sevenne extended a hand toward her sister who took it with a small smile.

"Hedwig, Hedwig, Hedwig. . . ."

The donuts and coffee lay forgotten as the crowd continued to chant the same few words – at times joined by a high-pitched scream of _Pigwidgeon –_ in the same reverential tone. Slowly, they formed a spiraling circle, grabbing hold of total strangers' hands to continue their strange mantra.

To some, it may have seemed to be some sort of pagan ritual while, to others, it was a mere waste of time – laughable, even. However, to the assemblage of people in Annie's Pet Zone that day, it was the most important thing in the world.

No one ever exactly figured out who had shouted of Hedwig's revenge but, by the time the chanting had stopped and they all milled restlessly about, picking at cold coffee and stale donuts, it didn't really matter.

It didn't matter that Sevenne barely knew any of their names or that they most likely wouldn't see each other after this one, fateful day. True, perhaps they would run into each other at the grocery store or the movies . . . maybe they would even remember a familiar face and exchange pleasantries, but that would be it. They all had their own lives to lead and that was fine; none of it mattered, really. The only name that really, truly mattered . . . was Hedwig.

Despite all of their differences, each and every one of them had come together today – single moms, teenagers, and businessmen alike – as Harry Potter fans, to celebrate just one simple aspect of that fandom – Hedwig.

Cassie turned to smile at her sister as to the two girls walked toward their mother's station wagon, and Sevenne couldn't help but smile to herself as she abandoned any doubts she had held. Perhaps it hadn't been in the way she had intended – it never seemed to be – but Hedwig truly had been avenged.

**A/N: **Just as with Chapter Two, this story is also not true – as you probably guessed, lol.

**Coming Soon: **Chapter Four, inspired by ClaireBEARR. You guys may have to wait a while for this chapter; I'd like to get some of _Distorted Reflections _done first. I just have to take down that writer's block brick by brick. :) Wish me luck!

And, as always, REVIEW!!!


	4. In Memoriam

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**A/N: **Dedicated to **ClaireBEARR **who sent me this true story. I hope you enjoy it, Claire!

**Chapter Four: In Memoriam**

It was raining. The usual puffy white marshmallows of summer had been replaced by the far-less popular stormy gray variety.

Rain pattered on sidewalks and cars; it drowned flowers so lovingly attended to by Mother Nature herself. It weighed down tree boughs, releasing droplets on unsuspecting souls who sought sanctuary underneath their branches.

Rain fell heavily on roofs and windows, steadily seeping through well-plugged leaks.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Boom! _A clap of thunder sounded, soon followed by its inevitable partner – lightning – as, for a brief moment, it lit up the darkened neighborhood. It cast its' luminescence over dark street lamps, showered bathrooms, bedrooms, and kitchens with its' radiance.

And, for a brief, infinitesimal moment, it lit up the small, shadowed room on 178 Duran Drive.

Due to the power-outage, the room was lit only by candles scattered arbitrarily throughout the room, barely illuminating its three occupants, yet setting the perfect stage for their grave task.

Around the three girls lay multiple books, hardcover books with torn dust-jackets and paperbacks with dogeared pages. There were books published by _Wizarding World Press _and books published by fan sites; even books with absolutely ridiculous titles like _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _or _Quidditch Through the Ages_.

Indeed, there were so many books that hardly an inch of floor space was left uncovered. The candlelight danced around the dim room, casting shadows over the walls where they vied for space with the posters that blanketed them from one end to the next. And the posters themselves . . . why, they were just as multi-faceted as their fellow novels – featuring so many different characters, lifting a wand, dueling, or just standing there, basking in their own reflected glory.

Yet all of these posters – large and small – exhibited one aligning feature, a boy with messy black hair, circular spectacles and, on his forehead, a thin, lightning-bolt scar. Just as the posters ranged throughout the room, he ranged in age – from the tender age of eleven to about fifteen.

This boy's name was Harry Potter.

And this boy – or rather, the series written about him – was who the three girls had come together for on this rainy Saturday evening.

Slowly, reverentially, the girl in the middle of the room stepped forward. Twisting her long purple-streaked hair into a ponytail, she bent and picked up one of the books in the very center of the room. Lifting it, she showed the cover to her two companions; unlike its' predecessors, the bright yellow jacket was immaculate, untainted by the test of time. Just as the posters and the books surrounding it did, it featured a boy – Harry – only he wasn't exactly a boy anymore. No, this Harry's face was a man's face, determined as he reached toward what seemed to be the heavens.

Claire, for that was the girl's name, had only found out later that the 'heavens' had been the Great Hall and that this very scene had been mere moments before Lord Voldemort's final downfall. Taking a deep breath, Claire pressed the book to her chest as she presented it to the room at large.

"We are gathered here today," she began, "to celebrate terrible losses."

Her two companions nodded, grim-faced.

"We are, we are," they intoned.

"A week ago today, the greatest saga in the history of the world was ended. Ten years and seven books later – here we are." Tears gathered in Claire's eyes as she spoke.

"However, it was much more than the series itself that ended. Many, many companions that we have grown to love lost their lives as well." The second girl – Ariana – spoke now, solemnly, as if at the bedside of a dying man.

"So we have come today to honor them," the third girl finished sorrowfully, holding her own copy of the novel tightly to her chest.

"Quite right, Elena," Ariana replied, nodding earnestly before bending to pick up a paper from the floor where it was illuminated by one of the many candles. Teardrops dotted it profusely and the entire thing looked as if it had been crumpled many times, yet it was still possible to read the title written in black ink.

_In Memoriam_

"Today," Claire began, "we come together to honor those who lost their lives in the war against Lord Voldemort. James and Lily Potter – our hero's parents – were the first victims. . . ."

"Killed protecting their son who would grow to be the Dark Lord's downfall," Ariana continued.

"Then there were Frank and Alice Longbottom, parents of the boy who very nearly received Harry's destiny as his own. Tortured for knowledge of Lord Voldemort's whereabouts, they refused to give in, refused until they lost their minds." Elena's eyes welled with tears as she spoke the memorized words.

"Both of these couples were examples of true heroes, willing to risk their lives so that their children could have a better life. Eleven years passed until the next casualty. . . ."

"That of Quirinus Quirrell, Defense Against the Dark Arts professor during Harry's first year at Hogwarts. Such an innocent man – such an unfair fate he suffered – to be controlled and used as a mere pawn by the Darkest of all Lords."

"A fate he never deserved . . . just as – several years later – Frank Bryce, an innocent Muggle gardener, never deserved his. He was used merely as a means of furthering Voldemort's power and. . . ."

". . .and entertainment," Claire cut in, almost spitting the last word. "Power and . . . damned _entertainment_, the very same reasons Bertha Jorkins was used for, as she was lured to Voldemort's lair by the rat, Wormtail."

"A rat in more ways than one," Ariana hissed. "Wormtail, who – later that year – killed Cedric Diggory in cold blood and allowed Lord Voldemort to rise to power again."

"Unfortunately, Wormtail – or Pettigrew – did not suffer Cedric's fate at his master's oh so tender hands. Not _yet_, anyway. He escaped persecution just as Harry escaped to tell the world of the Dark Lord's return. . . ."

"Barty Crouch Junior, however, _did _suffer. He did not die . . . no, he suffered a fate much worse than death – the Dementor's Kiss – for murdering his father, Crouch Senior. He would forever be a living shell. Who knows, perhaps he is still today trapped – barely living – inside Azkaban's walls."

"Yet – much to Voldemort's delight – despite Harry's valiant acts, much of the world refused to believe that Voldemort could ever return. Harry and Dumbledore were thought crazy while the Dark Lord and his followers continued to quietly plot. It was several months after his return, therefore, before the next casualty occurred. . . ."

". . .in that of Broderick Bode, an employee at the Department of Mysteries. Unable to risk him revealing his knowledge of possible Death Eater activity, Lord Voldemort ordered him – carefully and quietly – dispatched. To this day, his death is still considered a ghastly _accident_." Elena emphasized the last word with a clenched fist.

"Still, _still_, the world refused to believe and things only got worse . . . that is, until the climactic battle in the Ministry of Magic where Harry's godfather, Sirius Black was murdered by his own cousin, the Death Eater, Bellatrix Lestrange, as he . . . as he. . . ." Claire broke off, sniffling.

". . .as he rushed to his godson's aid," Ariana continued for her friend. "Sirius was a brave man, undeserving of his early death, but hey, at least he got to see his best friend again." She laughed, the cheerful sound echoing unnaturally in the tiny room.

There was a moment of silence before Elena continued again, somewhat stiffly. "Yes . . . and, once again, his killer escaped justice. Harry's sixth year was filled with deaths – Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance were one of the first, but the others. . . . Killings committed for no reason other than as a show of power - murders of Muggles, Muggleborns, and alleged blood traitors – though, thankfully, none too dear to Harry's heart, just nameless, faceless men and women and children. . . ."

"Faceless, that is, until Dumbledore." Claire, having regained control of herself once more, took a deep breath before proceeding. "Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, who sacrificed himself for 'the greater good,' by allowing – _ordering_ – Severus Snape to kill him."

"However, despite the fact that Dumbledore is no longer with us, we must never forget the lessons he taught us. . . ."

"Like how it is our choices, rather than our abilities, that reflect who we truly are. . . ."

"To treat others as our equals – a wizarding version of the Golden Rule. . . ."

"That death is nothing but the next great adventure. . . ."

"And," Elena concluded, "to always be careful when eating Bertie Botts Every-Flavor Beans." A small grin spread across the faces of the three girls, their grief – for the moment – forgone.

"Harry certainly remembered his old mentor's teachings," Claire continued after a moment, "as the magical world sustained losses great and small. The first to go was Charity Burbage, Muggle Studies teacher extraordinaire who believed – that in times like these – wizards and Muggles alike should stand together. Indeed, that Muggles should be treated, not as inferior to wizards, but as _equals_."

"A testament worthy of Dumbledore himself," Ariana proclaimed, looking proud. "Needless to say, Voldemort did not exactly share Professor Burbage's beliefs and found it necessary to dispose of her."

"The next casualty – although seemingly unimportant in the grand scheme of things – was very near to our hero's heart. Hedwig, the Snowy owl, was murdered when Harry and his guard left Privet Drive for the last time."

"Hedwig, who may have been trapped, helpless, at the time of her death, but who always lived free and, even now, continues to soar in our hearts. However, the side of the light lost more than a simple owl . . . they lost a great friend and a great man. . . ."

"Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, who was pursued by Voldemort himself and, when his partner, Mundungus Fletcher, disappeared, was killed. Moody suffered so much in his long years of life – he lost his eye, his leg, even part of his nose – we thought he may have been granted a happy ending."

"But only a lucky few received happy endings," Elena said grimly, "as more were killed – and this time there were more familiar names – Nymphadora Tonks's father, Ted, for example and his companion, Gornuk the goblin, who had no wish to engage in a wizard's war."

"As if Voldemort would ever leave innocent creatures from his reign of terror." Claire laughed bitterly. "As if . . . even the sweetest being ever to grace Harry's world – Dobby – was murdered in cold blood by Bellatrix as he sough to rescue his hero, Harry, and a few others he barely knew. He _barely knew _them, yet he was willing to risk his life for them."  
"Dobby, you died as much more than an elf, much more than a free elf. You died as a hero – in Harry's eyes and in our own. Yet, in war, it is not only heroes that are killed, but cowards as well. Wormtail, Pettigrew – the Potters' killer in all ways but one – received his comeuppance as he was forced to strangle himself with the hand his _lovely _master provided him with."

Elena smirked before continuing. "Wormtail deserved his fate. . . . More violence, more mayhem, yet Harry stayed safe at Bill Weasley's home, Shell Cottage. Safe, that is, until he, Ron, and Hermione chose to infiltrate first Gringotts then – with the help of Aberforth Dumbledore – Hogwarts itself."

"It was there that the deaths began again," Claire continued. "Harry rallied the remaining troops and the Battle of Hogwarts began while Harry searched for one of the few remaining Horcruxes which resided inside the school's walls."

"As usual, Malfoy and his cronies caused trouble . . . only, this time, much more trouble than usual. Vincent Crabbe – in one of his only shows of cunning – used Fiendfyre against the trio. Unfortunately, it did not exactly have the desired effect. The trio, along with Malfoy and Goyle, escaped unscathed while Crabbe was killed."

"_Burn, baby, burn!_" Elena sang and the other two couldn't help but laugh.

"So. . . ." Claire began, still giggling. "Malfoy and Goyle ran like the cowards they were and, along with Fred and Percy, the trio joined the fight. Only moments later, Fred was killed by the Death Eater, Augustus Rookwood. . . ."

". . .with a smile still on his face." Ariana wiped hurriedly at her cheeks as goosebumps raised on Claire's arms.

"You have to admit, though, that is exactly how Dumbledore would have wanted it," Elena added. "He wasn't afraid of death, he wouldn't want anyone else to be. . . ."

"Exactly, Elena, _exactly_," Claire agreed, nodding. "Just – just like Snape wasn't; in fact, he may even have _anticipated _it." Claire knew they had deviated from the script, yet – at the moment – she couldn't care less.

"Yeah, at least it meant seeing his dear Lily again." Ariana nodded, curly hair bobbing. "And . . . and Remus and Tonks, too. _They _couldn't have been too afraid. Remus – he got to see his friends again and. . . ."

". . .and Tonks got to see her dad," Elena finished. "Plus, they had Harry to look after Teddy. . . ."

"And Harry wasn't afraid, either. I mean, he didn't _exactly _die, but . . . he saw his parents and . . . he was ready, and. . . ."

No one spoke what they were all thinking. _But Harry _didn't _die. _The others had. Sirius and Dobby and Fred and Remus and Dumbledore, they all _had _died. And they were sorely missed. Despite their words, their encouraging nods, their half-hearted smiles, all three girls knew they were merely trying to convince themselves.

"I miss them." Claire's voice was barely above a whisper as tears dripped down her face.

"Who?" Elena asked, just as softly.

"All of them." Claire wiped impatiently at her face. "They're gone, don't you get it? They're gone for good! There aren't gonna be resurrected in some miraculous Book Eight. It's over, they're gone."

Without even trying to repress it, a dry sob echoed from Claire's throat as tears began to stream down her face faster and faster. . . . Ariana and Elena had joined their friend, the three wrapped together in a human pretzel, crying out the grief – the grief they thought they had exhausted a week ago – as if they would never stop. They never _wanted _to stop.

"I m-mean . . . B-Bella and – and Vol-Voldy, they d-d-deserved it, but . . . b-but. . . ." Ariana cut herself off before burying her face into her shirt sleeve again. Shakily, and still hiccuping slightly themselves, Claire and Elena squeezed her shoulder consolingly.

"It'll – it'll be okay," Elena said softly and – if the other two hadn't known better – they would have thought she was talking to herself. "It'll be alright, Ari. You'll see."

"Yeah." A small smile tugged at the corners of Claire's lips. "After all, things do have a way of coming back to us in the end . . . if not always in the way we expect." The girl's eyebrows arched meaningfully and Ariana couldn't help but grin.

"You know," she mused. "We really should go see that movie again. . . . I'm already a bit fuzzy on the details, you know?"

"Good idea," Elena agreed. "Claire, do you. . . ?"

The third girl raised a hand. "Say no more, my friends." Then, "_Mom!_ Do you think you could. . . ." The rest of her voice was lost as she strode toward the main living area, closely followed by her two friends.

It was only as the three teenagers had been herded into Claire's mother's SUV, only as they drove down the street, rain still pattering steadily on the metal roof, only as they had begun discussing Alan Rickman's amazing acting despite the awful Occlumency scene . . . it was then, and only then, that the light in the dim room on 178 Duran Drive, flickered on.


	5. A History of Magic

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Marauders. Or that Harry Potter guy.

**A/N: **And it's back! Hope you guys enjoy this chapter; I know I loved writing it. Then again, I love writing in general.

**A/N: **Dedicated to my beta-ee and friend Michelle Black a.k.a Elle. Chapters Five, Six, and Seven will all be her Potterholic stories.

_Bon appetit!_

**Chapter Five: A History of Magic**

_Scritch, scritch, screeeech. _

The stubby piece of chalk squeaked its' laborious way across the dusty blackboard, held firmly in a large, dimpled hand.

_Scratch, scratch, scriiiitch._

The entire class winced as the paunchy hand dotted the period with a decisive nod before continuing on, humming to himself.

Michelle groaned, fighting the urge to scream. What had happened to handouts? Or Merlin forbid he just _tell _them what the assignment was. Why, oh why, did he have to use _this_ medieval torture device? And, indeed, the very sound reminded her of the cries of a dying man.

Slightly creepy, really, when juxtaposed with the short, fat man standing in front of her, his belly exploding over too-tight khaki pants who Michelle could never imagine torturing _anyone_.

_Screeeeeeech._

With a final, resounding shriek, the chalk came to rest back on the desk while the teacher himself turned to face the students.

"As you know, class," Mr. Wallace began in a voice just as squeaky as the chalk he had just been handling, "recently, we have been covering biographies and autobiographies of certain historical figures. Can anyone tell me the difference between a biography and an autobiography?"

Inwardly, Michelle sighed. Who _didn't _know this question? Wearily, she raised her hand just as, on the other side of the classroom, Rick Adams did the same.

"Rick, yes." Mr. Wallace sounded excited as he addressed the class know-it-all. "Do _you _know?"

"Yes, sir. A biography is a written account of someone's life, written by a separate author. An autobiography is written by the individual him or herself," Rick replied primly.

"Exactly, Rick, _exactly_. Did you all hear that?"

Dully, the class mumbled its' assent that yes, they had indeed heard that. None of them added that it was impossible _not _to hear Rick'sloud, arrogant tones. Michelle's fist clenched under the desk and she sent a _look _toward her friend, Pamela, who sat opposite her. Sticking her tongue out, the other girl returned it.

"Each of these biographies and autobiographies is written about an admirable character, it it not?" The teacher barely waited for the few mumbles of agreement before rushing onward. "So, before the end of class today, I would like you to write a paper on _your _favorite person in the world, and why."

"Can we choose anyone, sir? Or does it have to be family?" Rick asked, head cocked to one side, curiously.

Mr. Wallace smiled ingratiatingly at his favorite student. "Of course, Rick. Family, friends, anyone, really. Just make it someone that _you _find interesting."

"And how long does it have to be . . . _sir_?" Jon Wilkes asked from the far back row.

"As long or short as you want it, Jon," the teacher answered, his kind air abruptly vanishing as he addressed the notorious class slacker. "Just don't make it only five sentences, alright?"

Jon merely snorted in response.

"OK, now, guys, let's get to work! Just bring your paper up to me when you're done, alright?" Clapping his hands together, Wallace plopped into his chair with an audible sigh, as if his poor legs hadn't been able to do the work of holding him up . . . for all of five minutes.

As Mr. Wallace attempted to inconspicuously open a bag of Cheetos, Michelle stared at her paper, half-hoping it would write itself. Don't get her wrong, she wasn't a slacker, but that didn't mean she was a total goody two-shoes either. Indeed, glancing over at Rick, already scribbling away in his tiny, cramped handwriting, she felt slightly nauseous.

A glance toward the back confirmed that Jon was already composing his few mandatory lines. Michelle could see them now:

_My favorite person is my dad. He lets me watch TV and play video games whenever I want. He also doesn't make me do my homework. He's really, really, really, really cool. He's a lot cooler than this stupid class. Take that, Mr. Wallace, now I have _six _sentences._

Wow, that was depressing. If even Jon could think something up and she couldn't. . . .

With a sigh, Michelle turned towards Pamela who was chewing on her pen cap, gazing down at the few lines she had written as if to make sure she had gotten their order exactly right. Michelle knew her friend's habit well. Pamela was probably one of the best writers in the class; she took stock in every word she put down on paper.

At the sound, Pamela swiveled her head to see her friend, first noticing her forlorn features and then her empty paper. Turning to an empty page in her notebook, she quickly wrote, _What's up?_

Uncapping her own neon-green pen, Michelle replied, _I don't know what to write._

_Well, who do you admire most?_

_I don't know._

_Your mom, your dad, me. . . ._

_Ha, ha, very funny, Pam. You know I love my parents, but they're just not really my "favorite people." Know what I mean?_

_Not really._

_I mean, I want to make my paper something interesting. Something . . . something-_

_Something to beat little Ricky with, you mean?_

_Maybe._

_God, Michelle, you really need to stop competing with him so much. Can't you just do your best and be happy with it?_

_Merlin._

_What?_

A few more quick, bright green scribbles explained Michelle's cryptic point. _You said "God." It's "Merlin."_

Pamela's green eyes rolled in their sockets as she wrote a quick reply to her friend. _Fine. __Merlin,__ Michelle, you really need to stop-_

But Michelle was lost. A wide, almost maniacal grin had spread over her features as she turned from the conversation and, instead, readied her neon-green pen above her own, fresh piece.

She knew _exactly _what she was going to write.

**. . .**

"Marie, good job, Chris, work on your spelling, please, Jon. . . ." With a barely-concealed sigh, the teacher handed back a paper with a bold _F _and a _Please see me, _stamped across it in bright red ink.

Michelle didn't really understand why Mr. Wallace bothered anymore; he knew that Jon would never do anymore work than was absolutely necessary. Why on Earth would he redo a paper that he had spent a good five minutes working on? It was blasphemous. But then . . . Michelle assumed it was just teacherly protocol; maybe he could get sued if he didn't. . . .

"Excellent job, Rick, very excellent, Jasmine, good job, Peter. . . ."

Then again, Michelle resumed her former train of thought, Mr. Wilkes was built in the same model as his son. He would probably find it too strenuous to complete the work necessary to sue _anyone_. . . .

"Martin, expand a bit more on your points, alright, and . . . let's see here, Pamela, very nice job. Now then, I'd like you all to do some peer editing. . . ." Beaming around at the class, Wallace began to explain their assignment.

Michelle's eyes, meanwhile, were wide with confusion. Was she invisible now? She was sure that, when Mr. Wallace had taken roll, he had marked her down as present. Or . . . had he lost her paper? She was sure she had given it to him. . . . What could be wrong? Sure, her paper was a bit odd, but the most she had expected was a "good job" or, at the very most, a raised eyebrow as he handed it back.

Nothing like this. Was she in trouble, then, was that it? Had she somehow offended him so much that he hadn't even deigned to hand it back to her as he had for Jon? Merlin, that would have to be one awful paper. . . .

"Michelle? _Michelle!_" A tap on her shoulder made her jump, turning toward her concerned-looking friend.

"Huh? What is it?"

From her spot next to Martin Fallow, Pamela nodded toward the teacher's desk. "Mr. Wallace wants to talk to you. It's about your paper, I think."

_Her paper. _Michelle gulped. She must be in deep shit now. On slightly shaky legs, she headed toward the teacher's desk where Mr. Wallace sat like a king on his throne, her paper resting on the desk in front of him.

"Are you alright, Michelle?" he asked as soon as she reached him, noting her pale face and shaky hands.

"Oh, yeah, fine." She attempted a nonchalant shrug, slightly harder than normal with his hand placed possessively over her paper, as if it were straining to wrap around her windpipe.

He nodded slowly, fishing in his drawer, undoubtedly for another sweet treat. "Good, that's good."

Michelle could hardly take the suspense. "Um . . . what was it you wanted to talk to me about, sir?"

"Do you know." Mr. Wallace appeared to be musing aloud now. "I never knew they sold pens that wrote in this exact hue." He gestured at the neon-green writing of her composition.

"Oh, yeah, they – they do."

He nodded. "Very nice."

"Um . . . yeah." She fought the urge to drum her fingers against the metal of his desk. "Um, sir . . . my paper. . . . Why. . . ?"

"Ah, yes. That." Michelle gulped. "Why don't we step out into the hall, my dear?"

_Dear? _She had never heard Mr. Wallace call anyone 'dear' – even Rick! It imagined her uncannily of Umbridge. All the while hoping that he wasn't about to assign to her any sort of torturous detention, Michelle followed Wallace into the corridor.

Making sure the door was left slightly ajar, Mr. Wallace turned his full attention onto Michelle.

"What is this?" he asked, holding the pages between forefinger and thumb as though it were a dead animal.

"Um . . . my paper, sir." Michelle answered as bravely as she could.

Mr. Wallace chuckled, sending chills down his student's spine, as he shook his head. "You misunderstand me, dear. I meant, who are these people? I've never heard of them before."

Michelle was stunned. She had never expected _this_. He was an English teacher, for Merlin's sake! How could he _not _have heard of them?

Wallace, however, had taken her silence for confusion. "Are they historical figures of some sort?" he queried. "I mean, I've certainly never heard of them, but they certainly have some archaic names. Remus, you see, he and his twin brother, Romulus, were the founders of Rome. It is true that they were thought to have been raised by wolves but, by your approximation, he is a werewolf. I'm not sure where you heard that but, let me assure you, it is not part of our traditional mythologies."

"Yes, sir, I. . . ." Michelle was cut off.

"And Sirius is a constellation. As for these 'James' and 'Peter' characters, I have no idea, but you seem to be saying they all have the power to turn into animals. . . ."

"Yeah, Animagi and-"

"That's it! And the nicknames they have, like . . . like Prongs, they suit the animals they turn into. And they do this, to . . . to help their friend, Remus, because he's a werewolf. Michelle, I must ask, where did you learn all this?"

"I. . . ."

"Or is this a story you made up on your own? If you did, I must applaud you on that, dear. I've never had a student with so much imagination."

Michelle blushed scarlet and, for a second, was tempted to take the credit. Wallace obviously considered the whole thing jibberish and herself a genius for making the whole thing up. Who would ever know?

_I would. _She answered her own question, her face twisting in disgust at her own thoughts. And would that really make her any better than Rick, sucking-up to the teacher just to have the "honor" of being Wallace's new "pet."

No, she couldn't do that. She _wouldn't_.

"Actually, sir," she explained, "I got it from a book."

"Really?" Wallace's eyebrows rose, nearly losing themselves in his bird's nest of graying hair. "And what book would that be?" His watery blue eyes were locked on hers, waiting avidly for an explanation.

Michelle's answer was only two words. "Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter?" Mr. Wallace echoed. "I think I may of heard of that. . . . It's a fantasy series, isn't it?"

"Yes." Michelle bobbed her head in assent. "A few of my friends and I like to read it and. . . ."

"But none of the people here are named Harry. Or did I miss something?" Rapidly, his eyes perused the paper, searching for something he may have missed.

"No," Michelle replied, "you didn't miss anything. The people I wrote about, they're Harry's parents. Well, James is his dad and the woman he marries – Lily, did I mention her? - that's his wife. The other three guys – Sirius, Remus, and Peter – are James's friends and they're called the Marauders. They like to pull pranks a lot and stuff."

"Marauders." The teacher chuckled. "Marauders, now that's a clever nickname."

Michelle cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah, I guess." She was more relieved that she wasn't in trouble than anything. . . .

Still holding the paper at arm's length, Wallace read it over once more.

"Harry Potter, you said?" he asked, handing it back. Michelle took it gratefully.

"Yeah. And, um . . . in case you wanna know, it's by J.K. Rowling. I think they might have it in the library, too," she offered.

"J.K. . . . Rowling." Uncapping a pen with his teeth, Wallace dug a scrap of paper out of his shirt pocket, scribbling the name onto it. Cocking her head, Michelle was able to make out the words:

_Ask Lib._

_Harry Potter, JK Rowling_

_Michelle Black (extra cred?)_

Michelle's face lit up as she followed Wallace back to the waiting class. _Extra credit for Harry Potter? Merlin . . . there is a God._ Walking confidently past the teacher's desk, she tried her best to ignore the twenty-four pairs of eyes that followed her progress all the way back to her seat beside Pamela and Martin.

"What's up?" Pam asked, clutching her paper to her chest once more.

Before Michelle could answer, however, she was cut off by a ghastly _screech_.

_Scritch, scritch, screeeeeech._

Once more, the stubby piece of chalk made its' way across the dusty blackboard, clutched in the same pudgy hand.

_Screech, scratch, scriiiiiitch._

Once again, the whole class winced as Mr. Wallace crossed several "t's" with a decisive nod.

All except Michelle.

_Screeeeeeech._

With a final, resounding squeak, the chalk came to rest back on the desk as Mr. Wallace turned to face the class, revealing the words written on the old, dusty chalkboard. Words that Michelle was staring at as if they held the key to all of human existence.

_Harry Potter_

"Class," Mr. Wallace began, clapping his hands together as he beamed warmly around at them, "I think it's time we started a new topic."

**A/N: **Remember, if you have your own Potterholic story, send it to me either via PM or review and I will write it.

Even if you don't have a story, feel free to review. I like reviews. Oh, who am I kidding? I LOVE reviews!!!

Plus, I'm sick, so make me happy and REVIEW! :D


	6. The Beginning

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Remus Lupin. Or that Harry Potter guy.

**A/N: **I feel like every time I update, I'm apologizing to you guys for the insanely long wait. Last time was – what, back in October? _Merlin_.

I'd like to say it's just been school kicking my butt again, but you guys deserve a better excuse than that after all this time. I've also been dealing with an eating disorder – and all the issues, depression included, that come with it. At my worst, I was so obsessed with counting calories and my weight that all joy was sucked out of my life. Things that I used to enjoy doing, such as writing fanfiction, were trivial compared to my one "major" concern – losing weight.

I have only recently begun turning my life back around with the love and constant support of my family and friends who I would like to dedicate this chapter to. Without them, I would most likely be still screwing my health – both physical and mental – up still more. This thing is hard to fight but every day, with their help, it gets easier.

Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. It is, once again, inspired by my beta-ee and friend, **Michelle Black a.k.a Elle**.

**Chapter Six: The Beginning**

_August 1, 2007 _

The first thing Michelle noticed was the sticker.

She would have liked to have said it had been the cover – its' bright colors and artfully drawn scene – that had initially attracted her. Or, better yet, she would have liked to have said how she had opened the book and been sucked in by the first few words.

But no – it was the sticker. On the corner of the book was taped a bright red sticker reading _30% Off_. Curious, she approached the new arrivals table, close enough to read the title.

_Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

Michelle had heard of Harry Potter, of course. Who hadn't? It had swept through the school like a flood until she couldn't walk down the halls without falling over some sort of Potter-related paraphernalia. It had gotten a bit annoying, actually, but that had been nothing to the last couple of months.

As the release of the seventh book had grown steadily nearer, it had been almost impossible to even walk down her own _street _without running into someone decked out in their Hogwarts best. She had seen it all – Harry Potter T-shirts, spectacles, scarves; some boy who lived down the road had even gone for a walk in full wizard's garb a couple of days ago. Michelle's lips twitched at the memory; both she and her friend, Pamela, had had a good laugh about that.

Now, though, the hubbub had died down and Harry Potter – the famous Harry Potter – was on a table with a discount sticker planted firmly on his front. It certainly, Michelle reflected, couldn't be _that _great, if there were all these piles of it still stacked around her. . . .

"Mom! Mommy, look, it's the new Harry Potter!" A tiny girl ran up to the display, almost bowling Michelle over in her excitement. "Oh, Mom, can we get it? _Please _can we get it?"

"We'll see," her harried mother replied, balancing a baby in her arms.

The girl sighed. "That means 'no,' doesn't it? It _always _does. You give Josh whatever he wants." She nodded sullenly towards her younger brother.

"Josh is a _baby_, Mary. . . ."

Michelle tuned out the mother-daughter banter as she studied the display. Hyped-up it may be, but still . . . it couldn't hurt to _try _it, could it? It seemed like an easy read – that excited little girl had to be younger than Michelle – yet long enough to keep her mother happy. Plus, she hadn't found anything of any particular interest to her; she studied the second book in her hand halfheartedly before placing it back onto a shelf at random. The wizard featured on _Deathly Hallows _looked much more interesting than an old apple, anyway.

_Chapter One, _she read to herself, flipping to the first page as she strode toward where her mother was waiting, _The Dark Lord Ascending_. . . .

**. . .**

_August 4, 2007_

"_Mom?_" Hitching an angelic expression onto her face, Michelle leaned over the counter where her mother was cutting up tomatoes.

Her mother barely spared her a glance before returning to her task. "Yes, Michelle?"

"Um . . . I was just wondering, can we go back to the bookstore later today? Or tomorrow, or something?"

"I have to work tomorrow, you know that." The woman cast her daughter an odd look, dumping the tomatoes into a salad bowl and starting on an onion.

"Well, what about when you get home from work?" Michelle continued to wheedle, taking an apple from the bowl to her right. Her mother cast her an approving look.

"I have a lot to do tomorrow night," she replied, wiping at her eyes as she diced the onion.

Michelle decided not to press. "Well, what about Dad?"

"I'm sure your father has just as much to do." Stopping in her task, Mrs. Black leaned on her elbows, facing her daughter across the kitchen counter. "What's this about, anyway? You don't usually like to read."

"And you're _complaining_? Come on, Mom, that's a double-standard. You're always after me to read and now you can't even be bothered to take me to the bloody bookstore. . . ."

"Language." The reprimand issued came more out of habit than anything as she studied her eldest daughter thoughtfully. "What about the library? It's right down the street, you could ride your bike."

"I don't have a card."

"Yes, you do. I remember bringing you to get one; you were so little you could barely sign your name." A nostalgic smile settled over her features at the memory. "It's probably buried somewhere in that mess you call a room."

"Mmm."

"Otherwise," Mrs. Black continued, a knowing glint in her eye, "you can borrow mine for now. They should still be open if you hurry."

"Awesome! I mean . . . that's cool." Attempting a faux-nonchalance, Michelle headed for the door. She wasn't a _nerd _or anything, after all and she _definitely _wasn't about to run down the street in full wizard regalia. It was just a good book.

That was all.

"I'll just . . . go get my bike, then." Her hand was on the front door, her foot was tapping. _Suppose they closed early today?_

"Alright." For some odd reason, her mother's voice sounded like it held the shade of a smile. "And Michelle?"

"Yeah?"

With definite amusement now. "You're eatng downstairs tonight."

_My mom, _Michelle reflected, pedalling steadily toward the library, _knows _way _too much. _She passed her neighbor and waved in greeting; straightening his circular spectacles, he gave an uncertain smile in return.

It was only as she returned, weighed down with her purchases, that she realized that, just maybe, she liked it that way. Why be ashamed? It _was_ a really good book, after all. Passing her neighbor, she waved in greeting.

Straightening his circular spectacles, he managed an uncertain smile in return.

**. . .**

"Michelle – _dinner!_"

"Coming!"

_One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds . . . twenty . . . ten . . . nine . . ._

"Michelle? Are you coming?"

"In a sec. . . ."

_- maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him – three . . . two . . . one . . ._

"Your dinner's getting cold, Michelle!"

"Hold on, just lemme finish this page. . . ."

_BOOM._

"I _told _you you had to eat downstairs tonight, _remember_?"

"But it's getting _good_!"

_The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door._

"I don't care how good it's getting! You are going to join your family for dinner! Don't make me send your father up there!"

Michelle was pretty sure it was an idle threat; if her father had had a hard enough day at work, he'd much rather dedicate his attention to his food than his absent daughter. But just in case. . . .

_Someone was outside, knocking to come in._

"_Coming!_"

**. . .**

_August 8, 2007_

"So." Mr. Black turned in his chair, fingers steepled. "What do we have today?"

The quick flash of a dust-jacket was the only answer he received. He was just able to glimpse the words _Prisoner _and something that looked a lot like Alcatraz before his daughter was hidden behind the book again, shoveling mashed potatoes into her mouth at a haphazard pace. No words were spoken to her father – or, indeed, her family in general – so lost was she in the words upon the page in front of her.

She had been this way for four days.

Jonathan Black sighed softly to himself, ignoring the _look _his wife sent his way. He _knew _that look – it was the look that said _John, leave it_.

John wasn't about to leave it. He was happy that Michelle was reading, of course he was; God knew Gabrielle and he had been trying to encourage her to since she had learned her alphabet. . . . But still, did she really have to ignore her family in the process? If he had tried pulling this stunt at her age, he would have gotten no supper that night . . . and the next, and the _next_, until he deigned to acknowledge his family's presence at the table. Gabrielle was just too damn lenient.

_Ever hear of there being too much of a good thing?_

"So," he tried again. "What's happening in your book?" He peered over his daughter's shoulder; she didn't look to be that far in, maybe he could follow the plot with her. . . . Maybe they could even make it a tradition – they could each read something before dinner and speak about what they'd read. It would help Anita get into reading, too, and away from the tube; kids watched way too much TV these days, anyway. And. . . .

"Michelle, your father asked you a question." Gabrielle's voice, sharper than usual, invaded his thoughts.

"Huh?" Glancing up, Michelle faced her father, looking dazed. A glob of mashed potatoes dangled from her bottom lip. John fought the urge to sigh again.

"I asked what was happening in your book, honey," he repeated patiently. "Anything good?"

"Oh, yeah. . . ." Her nod was fervent, yet unable to hide her still-glassy stare. "Harry just blew up his Aunt Marge – well, she's not _really_ his aunt, she's his Uncle Vernon's sister . . . but anyway, she was being a total bitch – sorry, Mom – so he blew her up. Not like bomb blow-up, but balloon blow-up. So then Harry had to leave and he took the Knight Bus to the Leaky Cauldron . . . and he thought he was gonna be expelled, you know like, for underage magic? But Cornelius Fudge told him he wasn't . . . and so now he's staying there and, yeah. . . ."

John knew he should have been happy she was talking, that he should be rejoicing – his daughter had not become a deaf-mute! Her words, however, had a by-rote, memorized air to them; as if she were simply completing this familial obligation – just like this dinner – before turning back to her book. . . .

As she was doing now.

Taking a last, overlarge bite of teriyaki chicken – chicken he knew Gabrielle had spent several hours preparing – that left her cheeks bulging, she pushed back from the table, book in hand.

"Done," she managed around the chicken, already heading for the stairs – and her sanctuary – again. John turned to his wife, speechless.

"She . . . I can't believe . . . _my _father. . . ."

"John." Gabrielle's face and voice both radiated sympathy and a degree of pity for the red-faced man sitting in front of her. "Just leave it."

"But she . . . family . . . raised her better than. . . ."

"It's a _phase_, John, it'll pass. Remember the Beanie-Babies?"

"_Oh_, yeah. And the whole fake tattoo thing?"

Gabrielle laughed. "I thought you were going to have a heart-attack when she showed us that one on her arm . . . oh, and remember the hermit crabs?"

"How could I forget?"

The couple descended into a litany of _do-you-remember-when's_, heedless of Michelle standing, motionless, in the doorway to her bedroom and having heard every word they said.

_Harry Potter, _she thought, hearing her father's booming laugh, _is not hermit crabs._

**. . .**

_August 14, 2007_

_Please don't die, _Michelle prayed. _Please. Not now._

The flashlight glowed dully under her makeshift tent, just barely illuminating the page in front of her. The batteries were running low, she knew; she'd used it a lot in the last few days. Words swam eerily in front of her vision – whether because of the dying light or her own exhaustion, she wasn't sure.

Michelle glanced at the clock sitting on her bedside table – _11:43_, it blinked accusingly – and yawned widely. She really _should _have been asleep by now, she could always finish it tomorrow. . . .

Her eyelids drooped. . . .

_No._

The one word, thought with such force, jolted Michelle awake, sure there was another person who had just spoken. Some Harry Potter god, perhaps, dedicated to ensuring fans unswerving loyalty – sleep or proper sustenance be damned.

Or the next-door neighbor. Either one would do, really.

Turning back to the book – the light had dimmed still more now – Michelle's black-ringed eyes skimmed the last few lines.

"_He'll be all right," murmured Ginny._

_As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand absentmindedly and touched the lightning scar on his forehead._

"_I know he will."_

_The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well._

It was over. The last few pages were, Michelle knew, dedicated to quick, biographical snippets about the author and illustrator. Rubbing her tired eyes, she placed the book on the table beside her. _11:51, _the clock now read.

_It's over._

There was that voice again, so loud and insistent it was as if she had said it aloud and Michelle couldn't help but wince.

_I know it's over._ Her reply was meek.

_ It'soverit'soverit'sover._

_ I know. . . ._

_IT'SOVERIT'SOVERIT'SOVER._

Michelle nearly choked on a sob. "It's over," she whispered. "It's over."

And for _what_? What had been the _point _of this so-called _magnificent _series? This bloody _New York Times _bestseller?

Nothing. There had been no point. Hundreds of witches and wizards – named or not – had died, been _murdered _by Ms. Rowling's merciless pen and for _what_?

Once again, _nothing_. For Harry to be able to rub his stupid forehead nineteen years later and say that everything was fine-and-dandy. For him to have a fourth kid named Hedwig Dobby. For bloody J.K. Rowling to be several million pounds richer.

Michelle punched the pillow, breath coming in harsh gasps through her tears.

_All was well._

Tears poured unheeded down Michelle's cheeks. All was _not _well.

"It's over!" she sobbed, her wails muffled by the pillow. "God, it's _over_!"

The flashlight flickered off.

**. . .**

_August 15, 2007_

"_That _was fast," the elderly librarian commented. She took the books from a subdued Michelle, bestowing her with a wide, grandmotherly smile.

She managed a weak smile in return as the woman chattered on.

"I know I bought these for my granddaughter for her birthday one year – of course, only five of them were out then – it took her _months_. Of course, she never really could get _into _reading, she saw the movies, of course, but. . . ." A shrug as she trailed off.

"Yeah. . . ." Michelle was barely listening.

"Was there anything else you wanted to check out, dear? If you're looking for anything like this -" she nodded at the six books sitting on the desk between them - "then we have a great fantasy selection. I can show you if you'd like. . . ."

Michelle shook her head. "No, thanks." Rather than a sanctum of calm, the library – its shelves upon shelves of books – felt oppressive, suffocating even. None of the other books mattered . . . not now that it was over. . . .

"Are you alright, dear?" The librarian's brows furrowed with concern and Michelle could only guess some of her distress was evident upon her face. "Do you need to sit down?"

"No . . . no, it's okay . . . I'll be fine. . . ." It was getting difficult to breathe now; all the thousands of books, their words meaningless now, pressing down upon her. Her breath came in short gasps as she stumbled toward the door.

_It'soverit'soverit'sover._

A sudden gust of wind ruffled the pages of a few open tomes and Michelle reeled back, half-toppling into the computer center.

"Whoa, are you okay?" Pressure on the small of her back, steadying her. Michelle barely had time to register her neighbor's concerned face before she felt herself being pushed down into a cushy armchair and two blue-veined hands were placed on her shoulders.

"Honey, I'm just gonna get you a glass of water, alright?" the librarian – Michelle could see that her name badge read _Ida_ – said. "You just sit tight with Chris here. I'll be right back."

Michelle only nodded vaguely as she watched the old woman scuttle away. What else was there to do? She was trapped.

"Hey, you okay?" She shivered at the touch of a hand on her arm and, slowly, tipped her face up to see her neighbor – Chris's – face, green eyes alight with concern.

_Harry's eyes._

Michelle fought the urge to shudder.

"Yeah." Somehow, she managed to nod while, at the same time, darting her gaze around the room, anything to avert her attention from those vivid green orbs. "Yeah, I'm fine."

_ The stuffed animals in the children's section, the reference section along the far wall with its encyclopedias and dictionaries, the fish tank . . . anything, anything at all. . . ._

"You sure? You don't look too good." He appeared to be following every dart of her pupils.

"Yeah, it's . . . it's just the heat, you know?" She sent a reassuring smile in his direction while, in reality, fixing her gaze at a point just over his left shoulder – straight at the abandoned computer screen.

What she saw made her heart skip a beat.

"_Harry Potter_." She whispered the words almost reverentially.

"Wha-? Oh . . . yeah, I'm a bit of a fan." Chris spared the lit screen a glance, a dull flush suffusing his cheeks. "Why? Do you – I mean, have you read them?"

"Yeah, I just finished. But I didn't know anything about . . . about any of this." She gestured at the screen. "I just thought. . . ."

"That it was over?" A wry grin. "Maybe for some. For the rest of us, though. . . ."

"Here's your water, dear." They were interrupted by a smiling Ida, who handed Michelle a plastic cup of water and several Oreos wrapped in a napkin. "You just have these and stay and relax for a bit. I don't want you getting heat stroke out there."

Michelle nodded obediently, taking a sip of the water before turning back to Chris.

"And for the rest of us?" She met his eyes with her own this time.

"For the rest of us," he repeated, grinning, "it's only the beginning."

A thick, awestruck silence filled the space between them. Goosebumps rose on Michelle's arms, she could hardly believe it possible. . . .

_It's not over. It's just beginning._

"I could show you some stuff if . . . if you want." Michelle jumped at the voice, startled out of her reverie.

"That would be great." A genuine smile lit her features as she turned from boy to the computer screen, and back again.

"Cool. Er . . . I'm sorry, I don't even know your name."

"Michelle."

"Well, Michelle, have you ever heard of fanfiction?"

"Fanfiction?" Michelle echoed, intrigued. "Never heard of it."

**. . .**

**A/N: **I AM NO LONGER ACCEPTING NEW _POTTERHOLICS ANONYMOUS_ STORIES!

I apologize to you guys that might have wanted to send me a story, but I will be finishing up the last couple of chapters (7-9) and then putting this story on hold for a little bit to write – and hopefully finish – my other work-in-progress, _Distorted Reflections_. I also have a new story idea that I am currently sketching out and would like to begin work on after _DR_.

I'd like to be able to say the next chapter is coming soon, but I'm afraid I'll end up breaking my promise. I _can _promise to put it up as soon as I can, though – when that will be, I don't know. It depends on both my level of inspiration and how I feel.

**Next Chapter: **Once again featuring **Michelle Black a.k.a Elle** and tentatively to be called "Ferret Fight."

And, as always – REVIEW!

~Lizzy Lovegood


	7. Ferret Fight

**Disclaimer: **Don't own it. If I did, I wouldn't be having to worry about paying next semester's tuition, now would I?

Sorry, bit cynical right now.

**A/N: **And here is Chapter Seven, once again inspired by my friend **Michelle Black a.k.a Elle**.

This chapter is dedicated to my totally awesome Shakespeare professor who allowed us to have a party the last day of class . . . and thus, allowed my mind to wander to Potterland. :D

_Bon Appetit!_

**. . .**

**Chapter Seven: Ferret Fight**

It was funny, Michelle reflected, how time could stretch itself out when you knew you were in trouble. She had been sitting here . . . what, a half-hour at least? A glance up at the clock provided the answer – six minutes, six minutes and twenty five seconds. Make that twenty six seconds. . . .

_Why can't he just hurry up?_

Granted, she was right. She _knew _she was right. The only question was, would Mr. Hurst share her sentiments . . . or was the vice principal, even now, concocting some punishment beyond even Filch's standards?

Exhaling a sharp, shaky breath, Michelle shifted the ice pack on her swollen lip.

On the opposite side of the bench, Pamela dabbed hesitantly at her bloody nose, wincing as she pressed at a particularly tender area. A few drops stood out, vivid scarlet against the white top, and Michelle couldn't help but feel slightly guilty, a feeling quelled quickly by a surge of hot anger.

_"He's a fucking coward is what he is!"_

No, someone who could say something so cruel, so . . . _disrespectful _deserved every ounce of pain they got. Turning away from this pitiful sight, Michelle drummed her fingers impatiently on the wooden slats of the bench.

Ten minutes now. Ten minutes and forty four seconds. . . .

The door creaked open – _he really should have that fixed, _Michelle mused, _it would sound much less ominous that way –_ and a tall, black-suited figure stepped out into the hall.

"Come in, girls," he sighed, sounding weary – an absolute antithesis to his foreboding appearance – and led the way into the office.

Michelle was barely able to suppress a scoff as Pam scurried to her own seat. _Who's the coward _now_? _Head high, she walked sedately to her own seat.

"Close the door, please, Miss Black." Hurst's voice, still weary, held a slightly harsh undertone and it was with an abashed air that Michelle pulled the plate-glass door shut. The turn of the knob held such finality that a threatening aura hung low over the room. The air seemed thicker than normal.

_No . . . he's just trying to scare you._

Nevertheless, it was with much less confidence that the girl returned to the desk.

Shifting various detritus – in his search for detention slips, no doubt – Hurst did not immediately notice Michelle's return. A plastic fork fell to the ground at her feet and, bizarrely, she found herself wondering what it had been used for.

Cutting raw meat, perhaps? It wouldn't surprise her if that was what Hurst ate – it would certainly fit his temperament. She let out an involuntary snort of laughter.

"Is something funny, Miss Black?" Hurst's eyes were narrowed in anger, a ballpoint pen poised and ready in his hand. Pamela's eyes darted between the two, wide and frightened. "Is disrupting the school-day with a childish fistfight _funny _to you?"

Adamantly, Michelle shook her head.

"Well, then, cut the crap and start explaining!" he snapped. "You, Miss Palasios," he pointed at Pamela with his pen-free hand, "what happened?"

"But. . . ."

"Miss Black, I would _not _suggest making matters worse for yourself, I have it on good authority that you were the instigator of the argument as it is."

"No, I wasn't! She. . . ."

"Miss Black, be _quiet_! Miss Palasios, proceed."

_He really should have been a lawyer, _Michelle mused, seeing Hurst's eyes gleam. He was in his element. _He's just as much of an asshole_.

". . . about a boy," Pamela explained, voice shaking and an appropriate expression of horror on her face. Here, Hurst himself snorted.

"Why am I not surprised?" he muttered. "What was it, for Homecoming? He asked one of you out when the other one had a crush?"

Michelle's fists clenched. Did he _really _think she was that juvenile? Punching her best friend – _ex_-best friend – over a simple _crush_?

"It didn't happen like that," she interjected, "it was. . . ."

"Did I _ask _for your opinion, Miss Black?" Hurst replied tersely. Once again, Michelle had no choice but to subside, watching Pamela like a hawk. Of course she would play right into Hurst's hands, acting the martyr and receiving a detention or two for her troubles while she, Michelle – the _instigator_ – would get a Saturday detention at the very least, along with a nice little note to take home to her parents. _Oh, joy. . . ._

And all because Pamela had had to go and say that – that _thing – _and Hurst was calling _her _the instigator?

Seemingly oblivious to her friend's glare, Pamela was staring fixedly at the corner of Hurst's desk, avoiding looking at either man or girl.

"Well, Miss Palasios?"

"No, sir."

"Excuse me?" Hurst sounded affronted.

"It wasn't just a crush. It was . . . well, it was about this boy Michelle l-liked and I . . . well, I insulted him. I-I called him a coward. That was why she punched me," she explained, gesturing unnecessarily at her reddened nose and stained shirt.

"A coward?" Hurst repeated, nonplussed. "That's an odd sort of insult. . . . Do you know what I think, Miss Palasios? _I _think you're lying to help your friend here out of trouble. Now, let's try this again, shall we? What _happened_?"

"I just told you." Pam's forehead was creased in a frown.

"You just told me a _falsehood_, Miss Palasios. Now, unless you would like the same punishment as your friend here, I suggest you give me the truth."

"But that _is _the truth!" Both girls spoke simultaneously this time.

"Oh, really?" Hurst cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Then perhaps one of you wouldn't mind enlightening me as to this gentleman's name whom you, Miss Black, insulted? And _why _exactly, Miss Black, didn't you let him defend his own honor?"

Michelle's face flushed. Any hope of sympathy from Hurst had disappeared within moments of walking into that bleak office. She knew, she just _knew _he'd only mock her for it. He didn't _need _to know that, he was just hoping to draw the torture out a bit longer before sentencing them. It was an invasion of students' rights, was what it was.

The first vehement syllable had barely issued from her mouth, however, before Pamela spoke.

"Draco Malfoy," she answered.

Michelle reflected later that those two simple words had the same effect of an incantation upon the man. The gleam of triumph dulled in his eyes to be replaced by a more pensive expression.

"Do either of you," he asked after a few moments, his tone thoughtful now, "by any chance, know Sevenne Witherby?"

Michelle could only nod mutely as her friend answered for both of them. "Yeah, she's a good friend of ours. Why, do you know her?" There was a forced naivete in her tone.

"We've met. Well, Miss Black, Miss Palasios, that this school has zero-tolerance for violence. You will each receive an office detention tomorrow and you have my word that, if this happens again, the consequences will be much more dire."

Both students nodded, Michelle too dumbstruck to speak, a smile twitching at the corners of Pam's lips. Taking their respective detention slips, they exited the office.

Once in the corridor with the door safely shut behind them, Michelle rounded on her friend.

"How," she demanded, "the hell did you _do_ that?"

The shadow of a smile spread slowly across Pamela's face.

"I thought we were _goners_ and you had a plan this whole time? Why didn't you _tell _me."

"That would have been a bit hard with you refusing to speak to me," Pam lightly replied. Ignoring Michelle's incensed expression, she continued unperturbed. "D'you remember when Sevenne and Jordan put those U-No-Poo posters up last year?"

"Yeah, but I don't see where this is going." Any argument over Draco's cowardliness or lack thereof had been erased in the face of this new mystery.

"Well, Hurst was really angry, right? He did that whole PA announcement and everything . . . but when they turned themselves in, he just let them go with a warning."

"That's right, they made up that whole story about Fred being Sevenne's boyfriend. . . ."

". . . and dying from constipation. Yeah, I remember." Both girls laughed at the memory. "But it got me thinking. Hurst probably knew he was being lied to – and even if he thought it was the truth, he might have just punished them anyway. . . ."

"Like with us."

"Exactly, but he just let them go."

"So, what does that mean? They caught Hurst at the right time?"

"Or the right _spot_. And while we were in there, I proved my theory right. Hurst," she explained, "reads Harry Potter."

Michelle stopped stock-still in the middle of the hall, mouth gaping. "What-? No way – I mean, there is _no way_. . . ."

"The seventh book was right on his desk, under some papers. He'd taken off the dust-jacket – to make it look less kiddy, I guess – but I recognized it."

"But how did you know that meant he _liked _it?" Slightly angry with herself for not spotting it first, Michelle felt almost determined to poke holes in her friend's argument. "I mean, a friend could have given it to him or something and he wasn't _planning _to read it at all!"

Pam simply shrugged. "I just but two-and-two together – Sevenne and Jordan, you and me – and figured I'd try it."

"Yeah, because unlike _certain people_, you _aren't _a coward, right?" Michelle retorted, her memory of those vicious words sparked. "Because you're brave enough to go out on a limb, right? Take chances? It isn't like, if you were wrong, Hurst would punish your entire family. _You _have nothing to lose!"

Michelle expected, almost _wanted_, Pamela to fight back. To make her defend Draco's honor against the perfect Golden Trio – the thought itself was exhilarating. What she did not expect was for Pamela to turn to her, eyes full of remorse, and apologize.

"Wh-what?"

"I'm sorry," Pam repeated. "I shouldn't have said that. I know how important Mal- sorry, _Draco_, is to you. I mean, he's obviously not Harry or anything. . . ."

"Well, _obviously_. I mean, _Harry_ doesn't have anything to lose – that's the whole reason he can be so brave – plus, everyone's rooting for him. It has to give him a bit of a morale boost . . . and then there's Draco,who is so . . . so _demonized_, by everyone. They think that, just because he's a Slytherin, he has to be a bad egg, and. . . ."

". . . but you care about him and you're my friend, no matter what guy you choose to drool over. So . . . I'm sorry."

Michelle nodded, slightly disappointed. _Let's forget the argument and just be friends? _Now where was the fun in that?That wasn't the point of the fandom, the whole _point _was to argue.

Did Snape truly die a hero's death?

Should Tonks have stayed with Teddy?

Hell, what was Dumbledore and Grindelwald's relationship like?

And, of course: Was Draco Malfoy a coward? The only answer Michelle could come up with was a resolute _no_. And here Pamela was, apologizing, making the entire thing null and void.

"Michelle?"

"What class do we have next?"

Studying her friend closely, almost worriedly, Pam didn't answer.

"Pam? _Hello?_"

A very Slytherin-ish smirk spread across Pam's face.

"Pam?"

"You know, Michelle, he really was a _bit _of a coward. . . ."

And they were off.

**. . .**

**A/N: **How did you like it – click the little button below to let me know!

Two more chapters to go and then I'd like to focus on _Distorted Reflections _again before beginning work on another chaptered fic.

**Next Chapter: **Chapters Eight and Nine come from **HowDoesThatMakeMeFeelJasper **and Chapter Eight is entitled **The Mysterious Ticking Noise**.

Cookies if you know where that title comes from – it's an easy one. ;D


	8. The Mysterious Ticking Noise

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter or Potter Puppet Pals. Those belong to JK Rowling and Neil Cicierega.

**A/N: **And, here's the first of two chapters for **HowDoesThatMakeMeFeelJasper**.

Dedicated to Neil Cicierega and his amazing puppets. :p

_Enjoy!_

**. . .**

**Chapter Eight: The Mysterious Ticking Noise**

The auditorium was in an uproar. Spitballs flew, unchecked, through the air as others cast furtive glances around, scribbling down answers to last night's homework assignments. A few, more daring students had pulled cellphones out of jacket or jeans pockets, feverishly texting friends only a few rows away.

_Dude, _a spiky-haired boy typed, _soooo brd rite now._

_Career day, man, _he received a few moments later, _same evry yr._

Indeed, it was. There was the same row of adults – doctors, businessmen, lawyers, even the mayor – lined up along the far wall like a firing squad. Their eyes darted apprehensively toward the chaotic mass of middle-schoolers.

"How are we supposed to get through this?" a veterinarian, Nancy Stuart, whispered to the suited man next to her. "They look like they're going to _murder _us."

"You don't have kids, do you?" her companion asked with a wry smile.

"I do, actually. Five and three, but . . . I mean, toddlers are one thing, but this. . . ." She nodded toward the seething mass of adolescents.

"Don't worry." He chuckled. "My daughter goes here, so I'm always suckered into going. It's the same every year. Just get up there, say your inspirational bit and you're done. Plus, the coffee isn't as bad as at the office."

Nancy laughed.

However, unbeknownst to Nancy – unknown to the entire auditorium of students, in fact – things would be very different this year. Very different, indeed.

**. . .**

"C'mon, Mrs. Garbo, please?"

"No, absolutely not." the music teacher's face was set firmly in a frown.

"But it's educational!"

"I said _no_, Suzanne."

"Oh, come on, miss, please?"

"Do not make me call the assistant principal down here, Timothy."

"_Please? _It's even related to your subject. There's really no reason to say no," Suzanne wheedled.

The besieged teacher did not answer for a few moments but merely closed her eyes and placed a few cool fingers to her forehead, undoubtedly praying for patience. Steadying herself, she began to speak in very slow, even tones.

"Listen to me, all of you." One by one, she pointed to the five children arranged around her; they stared straight back. "I think it's great that you're so interested in the arts and drama and all that. I really do. But, performing a – a _halftime show _on Career Day is not the way to show that interest. In fact, it could very well offend someone. Now, this school is lucky enough to have a very fine Drama Club and -"

"How could it offend someone?" Sara, the third member of the group, demanded.

"To hear that you are taking their words so lightly and don't even see fit to -"

"Are any of them producers?"

"_No_, Caleb. None of them are producers."

"Or actors?" Kayla backed up her friend, tossing her long red braids over one shoulders.

Caleb snorted. "Don't be stupid, Kay. This school definitely doesn't have the money for _actors_." He paused, appearing to think. "Someone from PBS, maybe."

"Which is why you need us," Suzanne informed a flabbergasted Mrs. Garbo. "I mean, you don't know what this is like for us, do you?"

"No food, no water," Tim gasped, clawing at his throat.

"Trapped in a little auditorium for five hours."

"We just listen to speakers drone on and on."

"Believe it or not," Caleb interjected, "we don't give a crap about whatever they've done."

"All we want is to go home, not listen to these mindless drones."

"Yeah, we could actually make a case for child abuse." Sara raised her eyebrows speculatively "And you wouldn't want that, now would you?"

"That last line didn't rhyme," Kayla teased.

Her friend shrugged. "Eh . . . it was the best I could do. Oh, look, that rhymed, too. And that!" She laughed. Caleb rolled his eyes.

"Well, as persuasive as that little ditty was, I just can't let you do this," Mrs. Garbo retorted dryly.

Suzanne sighed deeply, turning to her companions. "I guess there's really no other choice, guys. I'm sorry, Mrs. Garbo. I hate to have to do this."

"Do what?" She studied the five adolescents, blanching slightly. _Where did I leave my phone?_

"This." From a jacket pocket, Tim pulled an official-looking piece of paper. "It's a signed letter of permission from Principal Maynard. _He _thought it was a great idea, something to really boost school spirit, you know. . . ."

"Well, he isn't the sharpest at the best of times," the teacher sniped, barely sparing the sheet a glance. Almost immediately, she fought the urge to cover her mouth. What was she doing, hurling insults around like a child? Students were supposed to respect their teachers and here she was – a teacher herself – doing the exact opposite!

". . . just need your signature here, miss," Tim was explaining, pointing to a blank spot next to the principal's name. Kayla was holding an uncapped pen in her hands.

"And why should I allow this?"

"Well, we can always tell Mr. Maynard what you said about him. I'm sure he'd love to hear that. Your choice." Caleb shrugged, but his twitching lips gave away his true thoughts.

_Damn it. _Mrs. Garbo could have kicked herself as she took the pen from her student's outstretched hand.

**. . .**

"Hey." Suzanne slid into her place, tugging at the spike of her friend's hair.

"Oh, hey. What's up?" His head jerked up from a half-doze, almost in anticipation of the boredom that was to come.

"Nothing. It's just . . . today may not be so boring after all."

"What? Why?" A spark lit his dulled eyes.

"Just wait until halftime."

"_Halftime?_" He snorted. "What is this, a football game? I didn't know we had halftime."

Suzanne smiled a mysterious smile. "We do now."

**. . .**

Minutes passed . . . then hours.

A dozen or so adults took the stage to mingled applause, going on and on about how great their chosen profession was. Suzanne still couldn't see what was "so very fulfilling" about being the manager of a McDonald's but hey, maybe that was just her.

By the time, Principal Maynard took center-stage once more, most of the auditorium was comatose while Suzanne herself was barely conscious.

"Hey." Spiky-Hair poked her. "Hey, wake up."

"Wh-what?"

His only answer was a significant nod toward the stage. "It's halftime."

"Before we break for lunch, I have a little surprise for all you." The principal's overly-cheery voice, magnified tenfold by the microphone, bounced throughout the room. "Several of our Drama Club students will be performing for us and I hope that both you and our esteemed guests -" a sanctimonious little nod toward the briefcase-carrying men and women - "will enjoy it."

"You're up." Beaming, Spiky-Hair pushed Suzanne out into the aisle. Stumbling, she made her way down the row on shaky legs, trying to ignore the hundreds of pairs of eyes focused on her and the five other people slowly making their way toward the raised stage.

In truth, she hadn't really thought Maynard would agree in the first place. And it had been a mere stroke of luck with Mrs. Garbo, otherwise they never would have gotten permission.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God . . . no, make that Merlin._

She had reached the stairs now; knees almost knocking together in her fright, she started at a furious hiss in her ear.

"You told him we were in the _Drama Club_?" Caleb whispered fiercely, eyes narrowed.

"Yeah. So?" She placed a trembling foot on the first step and started to climb, Caleb right behind her.

"So . . . they'll be expecting something brilliant, won't they? Not . . . _this_."

"You worry too much, Caleb," Kayla replied from behind them. "Besides, this _is _brilliant." Confidently, she scurried toward where Sara and Tim were waiting at the microphone, Suzanne and Caleb hot on her heels.

_The sooner we get this done, the better._

"You alright?" Tim asked solicitously, squeezing her hand.

"Never better." She attempted a wry grin, but the muscles in her face seemed stuck. She could only hope they'd work when it came time to recite her lines.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," Kayla's loud and cheerful voice jolted Suzanne out of her reverie. "The Jefferson School Drama Club is proud to present a reenactment of the famed classic . . . Harry Potter and the Mysterious Ticking Noise!"

It was nearly possible to hear a pin drop in the sudden silence that enveloped the room. However, Suzanne had little chance to reflect on her classmates' stunning ignorance in the area of mysterious ticking noises before Caleb began to speak.

"Hmm," he drawled, standing center-stage, "what _is _that mysterious ticking noise." He paused, in that delightfully Caleb-like fashion, allowing his classmates to take in what he had just said. A few, believing he was serious, glanced toward the large clock on the wall.

"Not over here . . . not over there. . . ." He paced back and forth across the stage, looking around ostentatiously. "Hmm, kind of . . . _catchy_." Satisfied that he had captured his audience's full attention he began his mantra.

"Snape, Snape, Severus Snape. Snape, Snape, Severus Snape."

"_Dumbledore!_" It was Sara's turn now and she jumped to stand beside Caleb, a huge smile stretched across her face.

Whispers broke out along with a few giggles. The Mysterious Ticking Noise may, as yet, have been an unknown entity, but _everyone _knew who Dumbledore was.

"Snape, Snape, Severus Snape."

"_Dumbledore!_"

"Snape, Snape, Severus Snape."

"_Dumbledore!_"

And then it was Kayla's turn. Darting forward, she began in a high-pitched voice, "Ron, Ron, Ron _Weasley_."

"Snape, Snape, Severus Snape."

"_Dumbledore!_"

Suzanne noticed a couple of students in the front row tapping their feet to the beat. A few were even laughing – not maliciously, but as if they were genuinely enjoying the whole act. A small smile lit her face and it wasn't until she felt Tim nudge her in the small of the back that she primly stepped forward, aware of the hundreds of pairs of eyes on her, but somehow not afraid anymore. . . .

"Hermione . . . Hermione."

"Ron, Ron, Ron _Weasley_."

"Snape, Snape, Severus Snape."

"_Dumbledore!_"

"Hermione, Hermione, Hermione."

"Ron, Ron, Ron _Weasley_."

"Snape, Snape, Severus Snape."

"_Dumbledore!_"

And, finally, their last member of the group joined them. Tim had even doffed a dark wig and a pair of glasses for the occasion. The whole auditorium rang with laughter as he swaggered forward, every inch the arrogant. . . .

"Harry Potter. Ooh! Harry Potter. Ooh! Harry Potter."

Suzanne fought a smile of her own down as she completed her lines. "Hermione, Hermione, Hermione."

"Ron, Ron, Ron _Weasley_."

"Snape, Snape, Severus Snape."

"_Dumbledore!_"

"Harry Potter. Ooh! Harry Potter. Ooh! Harry Potter. Ooh!"

"Hermione, Hermione, Hermione."

"Ron, Ron, Ron _Weasley_."

"Snape, Snape, Severus Snape."

"_Dumbledore!_"

"That's me!" Tim cried, pointing ostentatiously at his own chest. Caleb, glaring, turned to the other boy as Tim did the same. Looking nervous, the remaining three stepped back.

"Harry!"

"Snape!"

"Harry!"

"Snape!"

"Harry!"

"Snape!"

"_Harry!_"

"_Snape!_"

Tearing off her jacket and sweater to reveal a white T-shirt, Sara leapt in between the two boys, arms spread wide. "_Dumbledore!_"

"Herrrrrrrrrrmione." Looking faintly off-put, Suzanne zipped along the stage, barely sparing a glance for the motley trio. Behind her, Kayla, too, resumed her former place.

"Harry Potter. Ooh! Harry Potter. Ooh! Harry Potter. Ooh!"

"Hermione, Hermione, Hermione."

"Ron, Ron, Ron _Weasley_."

"_Dumbledore!_"

"Snape, Snape, Severus Snape."

"Harry Potter. Ooh! Harry Potter. Ooh! Harry Potter. Ooh!"

"Hermione, Hermione, Hermione."

"Ron, Ron, Ron _Weasley_."

"_Dumbledore!_"

"Snape, Snape, Severus Snape."

With their finale only moments away, Suzanne drew a great breath of air into her lungs. Next to her, her five friends did the same, giving that last line all the force they could muster.

"Singing our song, all day long at __!"

Several students – and even a few teachers – began to applaud, but were stopped as Kayla quickly darted to the left of the stage, picking up a small, cardboard box.

"I found the source of the ticking," she squeaked excitedly, "it's a pipe bomb!"

"Yaaaaaay!" Suzanne and Tim cheered delightedly as Caleb and Sara exchanged apprehensive glances. They were all cut off, however, as Kayla dropped the box and Caleb shouted into the microphone an unintelligible syllable and they all dropped to the floor of the stage.

Once again, it could have been possible to hear a pin drop as students and teachers alike stared at their "dead" bodies. From her spot on the floor, Suzanne could see Caleb mouthing something. She didn't need to know what he was saying in order to correctly interpret his panicked expression, however.

_We forgot Voldemort!_

Suzanne could have screamed in frustration, but kept her body limp upon the floor. And here everything had been going so well, too. . . . Caleb was glaring while Sara and Kayla looked helpless, prone on the wooden stage. Tim alone looked excited, gesturing as inconspicuously as possible toward the left-hand side of the stage.

"_What?_" Suzanne hissed at him.

"Your _dad_!" he whispered back, looking elated. "Use your _dad_!" Both his and Suzanne's eyes simultaneously fixed on the suited man now studying his daughter with an expression caught halfway between worry and amusement.

It was the last thing she wanted to do – if only because it would earn her one of her father's trademark "I'm so disappointed in you" lectures – but what choice did she have. Jumping up, she strode so that she stood directly over her father.

"And . . . take it away, Dad!" she cried. The woman next to him, a red-haired doctor-looking type appeared shocked, even scandalized. Her father, meanwhile, said nothing.

"C'mon, you've heard the video a thousand times," she wheedled, eyes pleading with him to please, please just do this for us this one time and. . . .

"Voldemort, Voldemort, ooh, Voldy, Voldy, Voldy, Voldemort!" he began softly and, at an encouraging nod from his daughter, turned to face the students of Jefferson High, his voice growing steadily louder, more confident.

Suzanne, so used to her businesslike, law-abiding father, was sure she had never seen something so awe-inspiring. The rest of the students meanwhile, were gaping, mouths wide. An _adult _– an adult hired solely for Career Day – was party to this?

At last, finished, she watched as her father wiped his shining face with the back of one hand and, bowing to the students, turned once more to his colleagues.

And that was when the applause broke out. Louder by far than Suzanne had ever heard them, students stood up in their seats to scream and shout and clap; several surged forward, attempting to climb up onto the stage themselves.

Suzanne could see Principal Maynard and Mrs. Garbo – an unconvincing smile hitched on her face – mounting the steps, undoubtedly to herd them off. Grinning, she stepped forward, Tim and Sara on her left, Kayla and Caleb on her right and, ignoring the cries of "Encore! Encore!" took one last, deep bow.

Descending the steps, students surged forwards to shake their hands or embrace them like long-lost relatives. Suzanne could see a few asking for Tim or Kayla's autographs which they hastily scribbled on notebooks or lunch bags. It was like they were rock stars, Suzanne thought, when they were nothing, nothing but five, Harry Potter-obsessed thirteen-year-olds.

Yes, but five, Harry Potter-obsessed thirteen-year-olds who hadn't just sat on their hands.

Five, Harry Potter-obsessed thirteen-year-olds who, using their obsession, had changed the course of Career Day forever.

The large clock on the wall continued to _tick_, very un-mysteriously indeed as Suzanne, Tim, Sara, Kayla, and Caleb were borne through the large double doors and down to lunch.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Hope you liked it! Let me know in a review!

Only one more chapter to go – tentatively to be called **An Elf for All Seasons –** and then I'll start work on _Distorted Reflections _again.


	9. Remember Dobby

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Harry Potter, Dobby would not have died.

If I owned Spongebob Squarepants, Plankton would have gotten the Krabby Patty recipe. ;D

**A/N: **Here is the second chapter for **HowDoesThatMakMeFeelJasper**. I hope you enjoy it!

**. . .**

**Chapter Nine: Remember Dobby**

_July 2007_

The room was a war zone.

Soldiers lay strewn across the ground – some missing limbs – as various vehicles raced among them, several overturned, no doubt through the ministrations of a giant Transformer. A Monster truck lay, abandoned, next to a vicious Tyrannosaurus, its rolling red eyes fixed solely upon the door, standing guard over the partially-destroyed army barracks.

Her own brown irises fixed upon those of the dino, a girl crept silently into the room, wincing as she stepped on several discarded rifles. Determined, she darted through the warring masses, coming to crouch in front of the menacing Rex. Tucking a loose strand of light brown hair behind one ear, the girl's eyes darted every which way as she gathered the columns of colored blocks into her arms. Heedless of the pile of dismembered soldiers left behind, the girl headed resolutely back to the no-man's land of the hall. Her breathing came in sharp gasps, not out of exertion but fear.

_If she were caught. . . ._

No, don't think that.

Nevertheless, it was impossible not to breathe a sigh of relief as the cold hall floor met the bare soles of her feet once more. _Safe._

"Suze?"

"Ahh! God, Andy, don't scare me like that!" Nearly toppling over, Suzanne spun around to face her little brother.

"Sorry." He shrugged. "What are you doing?"

Her brother's tone held no note of accusation, but Suzanne immediately leapt to the defensive. "Nothing! What makes you think I'm doing anything?" she retorted, attempting – unsuccessfully – to hide the brightly-colored blocks behind her back.

Andy's eyebrows contracted in thought. "I dunno, you just . . . hey, are those my Legos?" he demanded as a blue piece dropped from Suzanne's hold.

"Erm . . . um – no, of course not!"

"They _are –_ you took them!" The eight-year-old took on the countenance of a much younger child as he latched onto his older sister's arms in an attempt to regain the remaining blocks.

"Give them back! Gimme, gimme, gimme!"

"No Andy, you. . . ."

"You stole them - _gimme!_" Andy's voice rose shrilly.

"I didn't _steal _them. I'm just borr- _ow! _- don't _do _that!" Suzanne tore her heavily-scratched arm away from her snatching brother.

"Then give them _ba-ack_! _Mo-oom!_" Within seconds of her son's summons, Mrs. Saunders's footsteps were heard.

_Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit._

"Andy. Andy, listen," Suzanne hissed, kneeling so as to be at eye-level with the boy. "I'll make you a deal. You let me borrow – don't worry, I'll give them back! - these, and . . . and you can watch whatever you want on TV for a week."

"A month," he countered, eyes narrowed.

Suzanne suppressed a sigh. How many episodes of Spongebob Squarepants would that be? Still . . . a glance at the Legos stiffened her resolve – it was worth it. It was _so _worth it.

"Fine."

"Andy, Suzanne, is everything okay up there?"

"Everything's fine, Mom," Suzanne called back, watching her brother intently for any signs of defection. "Andy just tripped, is all."

"If you're sure. . . ." As the footsteps retreated, Andy extended a small, pink hand.

"Pinky promise?" he asked, grinning as the two linked fingers.

Suzanne couldn't help but grin back. _He really thinks he's getting the better deal._

How very wrong he was.

**. . .**

_August 2007_

The room was a shrine.

A bed stood in the very center of the room, festooned with brightly-colored hangings – crimson and emerald green among them – each bearing the same lightning-bolt insignia while the walls themselves had been so plastered-over with posters that there was nary a blank space left. Instead, numerous robed persons gazed down from the walls, most prominent among them a bespectacled boy and his two companions – one with red hair and a crooked grin, the other a pretty brunette.

The bookshelf, occupying one of the few blank spaces of wall, was crammed with fantasy books while the top shelf, containing seven of the thicker tomes was clearly the most revered. A red-and-gold scarf, matching the bed hangings, draped over all. So embellished was this hanging that the title itself – one renowned the world over – was barely visible.

_Harry Potter_

Suzanne's eyes, however, did not immediately shift to this shelf or the posters or even the desk where the brightly-lit computer screen displayed the filming schedule for the next movie in the world-famous, Warner Bros. franchise. The girl's eyes darted, instead to the far end of the room where a plain, white piece of paper had been tacked, striking in its' very plainness.

Displayed upon the paper was a crudely-drawn sketch of what might, at first glance, have been taken to be a very ugly cat with particularly prominent eyes and ears. Unlike Harry, the creature was not instantly recognizable, unlike Harry it – _he_ – required a caption.

_Remember Dobby, the Free Elf_

Below the sketch was built a low wall of Legos – the bright colors dancing oddly upon the cartoon Dobby's face – leaving a clear space in the middle which Suzanne now knelt in front of. Looking uncharacteristically grim for such a bright summer's day, it was this space she reached into, removing a pair of mismatched socks – one neon green with pink-polka dots, the other red-and-blue striped – and a paisley-patterned hat.

Singularly uninteresting they might seem, but Suzanne clasped the few items to her chest like holy relics. She gazed from the two socks, to the hat, to the portrait and its' caption . . . and back again.

"I will not forget," she whispered.

She _refused _to forget.

**. . .**

_September 2007_

The room was a jail cell.

Suzanne had ceased to take notes long ago and could now only watch the clock ticking down, interminably slow, to their time of release. Could it only be two o'clock? How was she supposed to stand another half-hour of this mind-numbing drivel?

"Miss Saunders. Miss Saunders?"

"Huh?"

Mrs. Hanson, a peeved expression on her pinched and wrinkled face, did not attempt to conceal her sigh of annoyance. "I was _asking_, Miss Saunders, if you knew what _x _equaled_._"

"Erm. . . ." Suzanne squinted at the board, covered with unintelligible numbers and symbols. "Which one?"

Another loud, ostentatious sigh was the only answer she received as Mrs. Hanson directed the question toward a blond boy several rows over.

"Good one," came a voice from her right. Suzanne turned to face the cynical Caleb, the shadow of a smile on his lips.

"Oh, like you were leaping to my defense," she hissed back.

"I knew the answer. I just didn't feel like giving it." He shrugged a nonchalant shoulder at Suzanne's irritated expression. "Anyway, I was gonna ask if you wanted to come over today. Sara and Tim are coming, too."

"Can't. I'm busy."

"With what? You can't have that much homework, the year's barely started."

Suzanne simply shook her head.

"C'mon, we hardly saw you at all summer and now. . . ."

"Excuse me, but _what _is so interesting over there?"

. . .

What with the pound of extra math homework and Caleb's incessant nagging, the bus ride home couldn't come quickly enough; it was with a relieved air that Suzanne climbed the stairs to the sanctuary of her room.

"Suzanne, is that you? I made chocolate-chip cookies if you want some. . . ."

An indistinct mumble was the only response she received. Bag in hand, Suzanne wearily pushed open the door to her room . . . and screamed.

"What are you _doing_?"

Turning away from the half-dismantled memorial, Andy faced his sister, eyebrows knit in confusion. "It's been a month," he stated.

"Huh?"

"I've watched what I want on TV for a month," the boy explained, "now I want my Legos back."

"No . . . no, you can't. I . . . I still need them. . . ." Dropping her bag on the bed, Suzanne joined her brother on the floor, struggling to repair the damage.

"Why? You're not even playing with them. They're just _sitting _here."

"I don't care." A gasp caught in her throat as she saw Dobby's picture, thrust casually to one side, its' edges crumpled. "You can have the TV for . . . for as long as you want. Just . . . just don't _touch_ it."

"Pinky promise?" Andy looked as if he hardly dared believe his good fortune.

Suzanne nodded, enacting the ritual with her own shaking hand before returning to the monument.

"Mom made cookies if you want some."

"Mhm."

"Suze?"

"Mhm." Now holding the paisley-print hat, Suzanne hardly seemed to be aware of her brother's presence.

"And you call _me _weird," he muttered.

**. . .**

_October 2007_

The room was a nightmare.

Drawers and closet both thrown open, piles of clothes – T-shirts, sweaters, jeans – lay in haphazard piles across the floor. Fruitlessly, a redheaded girl dug through the pile, discarding items at random in her search.

"Where – is – it?" She chewed anxiously on one long braid. "I just wore it a couple of months ago. . . ."

"Kay, I'm telling you, just ask your mom if you can borrow her bathrobe or something. That's black," Suzanne suggested for the third time, shifting her spot on the bed.

Kayla hopefully lifted a bulky black sweater from the bunch, only to discard it, sending her friend an irritated look as she did so.

"And I keep telling _you_, Suzanne, that I can'tbecause it's not _authentic_."

"But if you can't find it. . . ."

"Do you think Ginny would have given up that easily?" Kayla scoffed, her braids swinging as she sorted through another pile.

Knowing her friend's dedication to the youngest Weasley – who, with her bright-red hair and stubborn disposition she did resemble – Suzanne merely shrugged.

"Who are you being, anyway?"

"Huh?"

"You know, for Halloween?" A green jersey went whizzing by Suzanne's head as she spoke.

"Oh, I thought I told you – Dobby. I got a mask and everything. . . ."

"_Dobby?_" Kayla repeated, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "Huh."

"What's that supposed to mean – 'huh'?"

"Nothing . . . well, I just thought you'd make a good Hermione is all. I mean, I'm going as Ginny and Sara's gonna be Luna. We thought you might be Hermione."

"I don't _have _to be," Suzanne retorted defensively.

"I know, Suze. I wasn't saying that. I just thought it would be cool, you know?"

"Excuse me, Dobby's just as cool as Hermione. Or Ginny, for that matter," Suzanne snapped.

"Suze. . . ."

"I have to go. I forgot, my mom told me to be home early today."

"Oh . . . alright. See you at school." Kayla's nonchalant response couldn't totally hide her hurt expression.

"Yeah, see you." But at the moment, Suzanne didn't care if she ever saw those red braids again. Nevertheless, once outside – the crisp fall air biting at her pale cheeks – Kayla's words continued to reverberate in her mind.

_Do you think Ginny would have given up that easily?_

Never.

_ Do you think _I _would give up that easily? Stop remembering?_

Never. She refused to.

**. . .**

_November 2007_

The room was a furnace.

At least, entering from the chill outdoors, that was what it felt like. Stripping off her thick gloves and hat, Suzanne struggled to massage feeling back into her numb fingertips.

"It shouldn't be this c-cold," she stuttered, teeth chattering together. Out the window, she spotted Andy and his friend, Nate, jumping around in the few piles of leaves that had not yet been bagged.

"How do they d-do it?"

Her mother smiled tenderly. "You'd be surprised. And it wasn't that many years ago Suzanne when you and all your friends were running around out there – Sara and Kayla and Tim. I nearly had to scream just to get you to come in!"

Suzanne's expression hardened at the mention of her friends. Halloween, although fun, had been a tense affair for all involved and, since then, Suzanne really hadn't spent much time with them. They, on the other hand, believed her to be acting _too weird_ and did not actively seek her out.

_Fine – they don't want to see me, I don't want to see them._

And besides, if they thought she was weird now, how would they react if she shared her secret with them?

"Do you want anything to drink, hon? I have some hot apple cider here."

Almost involuntarily, she had been edging toward the stairs.

"Erm . . . sure." From her mother's wheedling expression, it was obvious she was itching for some quality mother-daughter time.

_Or maybe _she _thinks you're acting weird, too. Maybe she's _worried _about you._

_ I'm _fine_, though._

_ Are you?_

"Just, uh . . . let me go to the bathroom first." Rushing up the stairs, however, her first stop was not the toilet but her bedroom. Crouching in front of the monument, she extracted a small wreath of leaves from her coat-pocket. She had made sure to pick the most vivid colors – Gryffindor red, Hufflepuff yellow, the orange of a Halloween pumpkin. . . .

Last year, they had carved pumpkins . . . all with grotesque expressions but the same lightning-bolt scar . . . Tim had even given his glasses. . . .

"What are you doing?" Andy's voice startled her out of her reverie.

His expression shrewd, the eight-year-old glanced from the wreath of leaves to the memorial to his sister's guilty face. He shrugged.

"They're just gonna rot," he stated.

**. . .**

_December 2007_

The room was a wonderland.

Twinkling lights and baubles festooned the tall evergreen, its' lower branches hiding from sight what, several minutes ago, had been a pile of festively-wrapped parcels.

Suzanne leant back on her slippered heels as she brushed a scrap of wrapping paper out of her hair, surveying her pile of gifts with no small satisfaction. Accepting a mug of hot cocoa from her mother, she leapt up a few seconds later – nearly sending the hot liqiud flying – as a wall of Legos crashed down around her, closely followed by Andy, a velociraptor figure clutched firmly in one hand.

"_Careful_, Andy," Mrs. Saunders scolded, offering her daughter a hand up. Her remonstration, however, was barely heard as Andy gave voice to the dino in a triumphant shriek, obviously reveling in his new toys.

Eager to be away from the noise, Suzanne was quick – much more so than usual – to clear up her own parcels. Folding the last of the sweaters, Suzanne's eyes fell first upon the memorial – given a more festive tone with a gold-and-green ornament – before moving on to the gift sitting next to it, her pride and joy, the special-edition _Order of Phoenix _DVD.

She knew her mother would expect her to wait, to socialize with her relatives who would be coming to dinner. But they weren't here _yet_, were they? And it was right there, just waiting. . . .

_Oh, hell. . . ._

Placing the movie into the computer's disk drive, Suzanne's fingers drummed in tandem with the computer's whirring and clicking, waiting impatiently for it to load. Of course, it had been much better quality when she'd seen it in theaters – she and Sara, Kayla, Caleb, and Tim had gone to see it that time.

She wondered what they'd gotten for Christmas – the movie? Or something else? Sara had been pining for Luna's radish earrings, she knew. . . .

Whatever. It didn't matter.

Besides, it was Christmas. They were probably busy. . . .

Finally, _finally_, the main menu appeared on her screen and, almost over-eagerly, she clicked Play.

Below, her mother was chatting animatedly to her sister on the phone. Andy knocked down still another Lego tower, crowing in victory. Pulling the door closed, Suzanne returned to Harry, sitting alone on a swing-set.

**. . .**

_January 2008_

The room was a firework.

Multicolored confetti almost completely covered carpet and chairs, dotting a few stray pizza slices alongside pepperoni and mushrooms, some sort of bizarre topping. Curled up in chairs and sleeping bags alike, four teenagers lay asleep.

The fifth sat watching.

Her glance shifting from her friends to the digital clock, Suzanne counted down the minutes – not until the New Year – but until they would leave. She would have been just fine with a simple pizza or two with her family, but had anyone listened?

Of course not.

Worried about her daughter's recent reclusive tendencies, Mrs. Saunders – deaf to her daughter's insistence – had invited Sara, Kayla, Tim, and Caleb to a dusk-till-dawn celebration. Obviously believing herself to be giving her daughter a tremendous treat, the woman had left the teenagers to their tense silence: the four visitors all-too conscious of their unwanted presence and their unwilling host wanted nothing more than to be alone.

All attempts at friendly conversation – even among the latter four – had seemed unnatural and were quickly stifled. Even Mrs. Saunders's suggestion of watching "Suze's new DVD" had been shot down within a few minutes of the opening scene. The idea of Harry, secluded and snappish, had struck too close to home.

Harry Potter, once such a uniting force amongst them, now served to drive them apart.

The confetti had been thrown, the kazoos had been blown, at midnight – welcoming in 2008 – but it had been more out of habit than anything.

They all had drifted off sometime after – too weary for any "till-dawn" festivities – but Suzanne, restless, had woken only a few minutes ago. Another glance at the digital display showed seven o'clock on the dot and Suzanne darted a furtive glance at the DVD, face-down on the floor beside a snoring Tim.

_I should probably bring it upstairs before someone steps on it or something._

Understanding – and accepting – how crappy an excuse this was, Suzanne extricated herself from the chair and, movie in hand, tiptoed out of the room.

Draping the Gryffindor scarf safely over it again, Suzanne turned to leave – already musing over what she wanted for breakfast – when a figure, standing stock-still in the doorway, made her start.

"Hey," Sara yawned. "I was wondering where you went."

"Yeah. . . ." Suzanne had to forcefully prevent herself from saying, _Well, it's _my _house._ "What are _you _doing up here, anyway?"

Sara's normally serene face hardened slightly. "Bathroom."

"Don't let me slow you down, then." Suzanne's laugh did not conceal her unkind expression.

The other girl, however, didn't move. Eyes narrowed, she appeared to be squinting at something . . . and Suzanne had a very shrewd suspicion she knew what.

"Sara? _Hello?_ Earth to. . . ."

"Suze, what _is _that?"

"What – what's what?" Attempting to obscure Sara's line of vision, Suzanne began chivvying her away from the door. "I don't see anything."

"That . . . that – are those Legos?"

"N-no, what are you. . . ?" But Sara had already sidestepped her and had knelt down by the memorial, was even now reading the inscription.

"_Remember Dobby _. . . Suze, is this what's been wrong?"

"No!" It was a bad lie, even to her own ears. "And don't _touch _that!" She stepped protectively in front of the sketch.

She didn't know why she was lying to Sara. Unlike Caleb – or even Kayla or Tim – Sara would never tease her about something like this. She supposed it was just the idea – that this had been _her _secret – that no one else knew, but Sara had forced her way into.

As if she had a _right _to know, a _right_ to pity, just to make herself feel better for rejecting Suzanne in the first place.

"All this time? Suze, why didn't you tell us?"

"Well, I might've," she retorted angrily, "if you lot hadn't refused to listen in the first place!"

"Refuse to listen? When did we refuse to. . . ?"

"You called me weird . . . and you never wanted to talk to me, and. . . ."

"Suze, you know we only did that after _you _stopped talking to _us_!"

But Suzanne didn't care. She didn't want to hear reason or sense, she didn't want to be pitied; this irrational anger soothed her like nothing else did.

_She wanted to know so bad, so let her deal with the consequences._

"Suze. . . ." Sara reached out a tentative hand, but Suzanne turned away.

"Get out." Her voice was controlled, calm. "Just . . . get out."

"But. . . ."

"Get _out_!" In the next room, Andy stirred, moaning.

Sara's eyes were suspiciously wet. "Fine. I'll be downstairs if you. . . ."

"I said – leave!"

Suzanne slammed the door just before the tears came.

**. . .**

_February 2008_

The room was a torture chamber.

"Isn't this, like, great?" Rachael trilled excitedly, applying a third coat of lip-gloss to her already shining lips.

"Mmm." Suzanne nodded vaguely.

"I mean, it's _so _great that Miss Boucher like, cares about her students so much y'know? I mean, she's like, so young and she understands how important Valentine's Day is and . . . ohmygawd, it's just _so _amazing!" she squealed.

"Mhm." Chilled to the bone, Suzanne's mood matched compared more with the stormy-gray sky rather than that of the pink, sparkling, and cupid-adorned homeroom.

Granted, she had never really been a fan of the big V-Day. The mushy cards, teddies, and antacid "candy" hearts had almost made her gag, but at least before there had been someone to gag _with_.

This year, she was alone.

"Ohmygawd, he's _so _sweet!" Another squeal from Rachael, this time louder, as Miss Boucher handed a rose, presumably from her boyfriend, Brandon. For a small fee, students could send a flower and, if they chose, a small message to their sweetheart.

Several other girls sat, swooning and giggling over their own messages – a few whispering over who their secret admirer might be – while a few jocks had flushed scarlet, hastily shoving lovingly-crafted poems into their bags.

The vast majority, however, were sitting, heads on hands, watching the proceedings with dismal gloom, their hope dwindling with the roses. Suzanne knew that, by the end of the day, they would have wilted entirely.

Because they were alone, too.

"_And so the lion fell in love with the lamb_," Rachael read. "Isn't that like, _so _sweet, Suzie? It's like, so _deep_, y'know?"

"Sweet." Captain of the hockey team, Brandon was about as deep as a puddle.

Rachael, now busily texting her boyfriend under the table – _OMG, I luv u! 3 –_ barely noticed her companion's lackluster response.

With someone like Rachael, there was no true connection. Vapid and ditzy with her primary concern the sale at Hollister, secrets were left unexplored. Any possible emotional founts were left untapped.

Which was just the way Suzanne liked it.

Investing less meant there was less to lose. Less pain to endure when it finally ended.

Because it _would _end – everything did, eventually. Love. Life.

_Friendship._

"Well, well, _someone's _certainly popular today!" Staring at nothing, Miss Boucher's chipper tones made her start.

"Huh?"

The teacher's actions, however, spoke for themselves. Suzanne could only stare in wonderment as one, two, three, _four _roses were placed on the table before her.

"Ooh, who sent you _those_?" Rachael's eyes widened in envy.

"I dunno. . . ." she lied. She had a shrewd suspicion, one she desperately hoped was wrong . . . but, no, that was a lie, too. She half-wanted to be right.

"I bet you have a secret admirer!" Rachael gasped; there was no hiding her jealous tone now.

"Oh, you lucky girl, you!" Tipping both girls an enormous wink, Miss Boucher moved off to deliver the last few missives.

"Well . . . aren't you gonna open them?" Rachael's pink-taloned nails reached for the first flower. Before Suzanne could stop her, she had read aloud the first word, "_To_."

"Is that all it says?"

"Yeah. . . . You know what, Suzie," and her expression abruptly became pitying and – or was this her imagination? - somewhat relieved, "these were probably like, sent by a bunch of weirdos who don't even, like know what romance _is_."

There was no doubt they had been sent by weirdos. Whether they were _her _weirdos was the question.

"OMG, and you probably got your hopes up, too! You should just throw them right in the bin . . . show those assholes just what you think of them! Here, I'll do it. . . ."

"No! Erm . . . I mean, no thanks, Rach. I think I'll just . . . see what they say. I mean, it's kinda interesting, isn't it? A mystery?"

An eye roll was the only reply she received. "Whatever. Ooh!" she squealed as her phone beeped, signaling her own return to its screen.

Heedless of the attached flowers, Suzanne ripped open the three remaining cards.

_Back_

_ Us_

_ Come_

And, at the very bottom of the _Us _card, _you lovable idiot_. Well, that was obviously the final one. As for the remaining three . . . _To Come Back _. . . _Back To Come _. . . _Come Back To_. . . .

_Come Back To Us (you lovable idiot)._

Maybe she wasn't as alone as she had thought.

But did she want to be? Being alone was easier. The less you cared, the less of yourself you gave up to be hurt.

Did less pain equal happiness?

"Well?" Rachael demanded. "Who were they from?"

"Just weirdos." Suzanne shrugged. "You were right."

She had always been bad at math.

**. . .**

_March 2008_

The room was a scale.

Untraceable and unquestionable, it was the unspoken law of the cafeteria, a sort of supernatural force that, upon entering the hall, gave each student his or her place in the hierarchy.

The popular group claimed the center table, holding court over every other clique.

Punks darted glances between their table and the bathroom – only a few feet away – which smoke furled out of, a noxious odor.

Honor students sat, primed and ready, directly next to the exit; a few pored over textbooks or test papers.

And, tucked away in the farthest corner were the stragglers. The misfits. Suzanne.

That unspoken force gave even those who didn't belong a niche to cling to – albeit an unhappy one. Bent over her styrofoam tray, Suzanne stared at the table. Eye contact might lead to conversation, conversation to that inevitable question, _Why are you here?_.

A question ordinarily posed to prison inmates and one that, ike the inmates, Suzanne was just as unwilling to discuss.

What would she say, anyway?

_How'd _I _get here? Well, let's see . . . I drove away the only real friends I had and when I tried to get nicey-nice with another girl, she turned into a total bitch on me._

Or maybe she hadn't _turned into_ one. Maybe she'd been one all along.

Either way, a few days after the card incident, Rachael had taken it upon herself to let much of her social circle know "poor Suzie's" story.

"Don't worry, I just _know _you'll meet someone _someday_. It's like, destiny, y'know? Like me and Brandon." Patting Suzanne's hand, Rachael could barely conceal a grin.

Having her suggest "hooking up" with Tim – _because he's like, totally cute –_ had been the last straw. As the biggest gossip-monger in the school, Rachael must surely have heard about the rift, must have known how much it would hurt.

A hesitant glance showed the girl, sitting with her arm twined possessively around Brandon's.

_Bitch._

"You gonna eat that?"

_Speak of the devil._ Tim had taken a seat directly across from her, fork poised over her cup of macaroni salad.

"Go ahead." She pushed the half-devoured tray toward him, not sure exactly what she was doing. Half of her wanted to tell him to leave or, failing that, to leave herself. But she didn't – _couldn't_. He was just . . . just. . . .

"Awesome." His sheer exuberance startled several stragglers, who apprehensively glanced up from their own meals. "Hey, what's up?"

. . . _Tim_. The Tim from last summer, before everything had become so wrong.

There was silence for a few moments, save for his slurping of noodles and mayonnaise.

"What are you. . . ?"

"Doing here?"

Suzanne nodded. "Why aren't you with the others?"

"Well, first off," he raised a finger, "I was hungry." He grinned and an unwilling smile tugged at Suzanne's own lips. This was safe, no emotional upset, just the old, laughing Tim.

"And second . . . we – _I –_ miss you."

Jaw tense, Suzanne turned back to the table.

Tim shrugged, ever-nonchalant. "Just letting you know . . . so you get more in future, that is." He nodded toward the empty cup of pasta.

It wasn't funny. It was cheesy and stupid and everything Suzanne had been missing.

She laughed.

**. . .**

_April 2008_

The room was a studio.

Dye-spattered newspapers were scattered across the floor, comics and classifieds eclipsed by stains of baby blue, yellow, and pink.

Spring colors. Colors that a dozen eggs – placed neatly in their carton – were now sporting, each drying in its respective plinth.

Leant on her elbows, Suzanne proudly surveyed her creations. Their bright hues cheered her like nothing else did. . . .

Even Legos.

No, she didn't want to think about that now. Not when she was so content.

But she knew she would never have the courage to face the truth, otherwise. She let it come, let herself hear the truth, no matter how painful.

Investing less hurt less. She knew that. But, if that were true, why had she idolized it so, given up so much of herself to it? A mere collection of plastic and paper? Her mind struggled to find justification.

_It helped you. What about that tough time last month?_

But no . . . Tim had done that. In truth, was still doing it. Through his presence, lunch had gone from the most-detested, to her favorite part of the day. They would never discuss anything serious but just talk about everyday things – homework, TV shows, family – simply enjoying eachother's company.

Sometimes one of the others – Sara or Kayla or Caleb – would join them, but it just wasn't the same. Taking their example from Tim, none of them would ever try to force the issue, would smile and laugh in all the right places. But when their laughs seemed a bit too forced, their smiles a bit too mask-like, Suzanne saw it. They weren't comfortable just ignoring the problem; to them, it was as big as an elephant in the room.

It was these visits that drove the point home to her all the more clearly.

This couldn't last forever. A friendship based solely on ignorance and lies was doomed to failure and, eventually, Suzanne knew she would have to face up . . . or be alone again.

_And when you _are_ alone . . . who will help you then?_

But who said she really wanted to be alone?

_They're just selfish. They called you weird, remember?_

No, they weren't – _aren't_.

They cared about her. And the memorial – built to honor Dobby, one of the most generous creatures in the fandom – had done nothing more but drive her away from them.

Was that all it would stand for now – her own petty selfishness?

Or could she still remember Dobby?

Remember how much he valued love and friendship, how much he had given to save his friends.

Remember her own friends – Sara's serenity and Kayla's perseverance, Caleb's wit and Tim's . . . sheer Tim-ishness.

As if on auto-pilot, Suzanne found herself ascending the stairs and crouching in front of the badly-drawn sketch – now yellowing – the encircling Legos, the mismatched socks and the paisley-print hat.

She slipped the socks onto her feet, the hat onto her head. On such a muggy April afternoon, she was sure she looked ridiculous.

But she didn't care.

Her best friends would be with her, wherever life may lead.

**. . .**

_May 2008_

The room was a courthouse.

Filled with chatting patrons and screaming children enjoying an air-conditioned respite from the warm day, the ice-cream parlor served as the perfect cover for the five teens. Squashed into a corner booth, the silence surrounding them – in stark contrast with the rest of the shop – was eerie.

Four pairs of eyes lay fixed upon the last member of their group. Though not accusing – more curious than anything – Suzanne found she couldn't look at them, instead poking uninterestedly at her sundae. Her face, despite the cool atmosphere, was flushed.

Today wasn't a friendly, lunchtime meeting.

Whatever she said, they would judge. Judge if they really did want her to _Come Back To Us_.

She wouldn't blame them if they didn't.

_So what's stopping you? The pain?_

No. Sure, it hurt to care, but it hurt not to care more. She had known the risks when she had arranged this meeting. Now, she needed to face them.

"Look, guys. . . ."

Giggling, a toddler smashed their chocolate cone against the wall. He began to cry mere moments later.

"That's my cue." Rolling her eyes, Kayla donned her visor and name-tag, heading toward where the mess lay. Suzanne watched her go with a mixture of apprehension and relief – should she continue? Should they perhaps wait for a more opportune time?

But would she ever be able to do this again?

"We know you've been an idiot." In her friend's absence, Sara seemed to have taken Kayla's outspokenness upon herself.

And it was that, more than anything, that broke the spell. Before she knew it, Suzanne was talking, talking more than she ever had in her life – telling them everything.

How the memorial had been hers and hers alone.

How they had disturbed that secret.

How the ideals that it – that _Dobby –_ had stood for had been so grossly twisted.

How she came to be wearing a winter hat in seventy-five degree weather.

And how . . . how she would understand if. . . . But she was afraid to ask – could this be the end?

"Oh, I was wondering why you did that. Because, no offense -" Caleb placed Kayla's pink-and-green visor atop his own head - "it looks stupider than this. And _that_ is saying something."

As Kayla swatted at him with said headgear, as Tim flicked a spoonful of whipped cream at the pair and she proclaimed that she "wasn't cleaning that up," as Sara snorted into her smoothie, Suzanne tucked the paisley-print hat into her pocket.

There was no need for it. Not now.

**. . .**

_June 2008_

The room was a theater.

With the lights dimmed and the door closed, five faces crowded around the computer screen. A close fit, but with Andy still exercising his privilege over the television, there was very little choice.

Suzanne cringed as Spongebob's dulcet tones edged through the crack between door and wall, an odd contrast to Harry's almost-perpetual angst.

_Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?_

_SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!_

Why had she allowed him free rein of the TV again?

"_You wouldn't understand."_

"_Then help us to."_

Briefly, Tim's hand squeezed hers. She squeezed back.

_They will understand, Harry. They _will_. Just tell them._

"_We believe you by the way. That He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back, and you fought him, and the Ministry and the Prophet are conspiring against you and Dumbledore."_

"_Thanks. Seems you're about the only ones that do."_

"_I don't think that's true. But I suppose that's how he wants you to feel."_

"_What do you mean?"_

"_Well if I were You-Know-Who, I'd want you to feel cut off from everyone else. Because if it's just you alone you're not as much of a threat."_

Five glances, five grins.

Though difficult to see in the dim light, a second sketch had joined Dobby's aged portrait. Five friends – some mere smiling stick figures, others more realistic – stood in the middle of the page, joined by a chain – outlined in Magic Marker – a chain that comprised of one word.

_ Friends, friends, friends. . . ._

"_Do you _ever _stop eating?"_

"_What? I'm hungry."_

"_Can I join you?"_

**. . .**

_July 2008_

The room was empty.

The bed still held its Gryffindor hangings, the shelves were still stuffed with stories, the walls had even gained a few new posters. The farthest corner, however, was now empty; no bright blocks redeemed the plainness of the walls. The two sketches lay askew on the desk, surrounded by various papers and paraphernalia – ballpoint pens and pencils.

_Fanfiction, _one notebook read.

Another paper, this one a card in bright shades of red and blue, proclaimed:

_HAPPY BIRTHDAY!_

And, inside, in Caleb's neat script:

_Deathly Hallows, how we love thee._

_Come celebrate its anniversary._

_Wow, that was a really bad rhyme._

_Just come, OK?_

_P.S. Remember Dobby_

**. . .**

**A/N: **I understand that I'm probably in the minority here, but I wasn't really crazy for Dobby's death scene in the Deathly Hallows movie. I feel that, in the book, it had far more emotion. Hmm . . . maybe because we didn't really get to know Dobby in the films?

Let me know what you think in a review!

As this is the final chapter, I am now going to start work on **Distorted Reflections**. The next chapter is tentatively called **The Underground**, but it will not be out until after Christmas is over.

In that spirit, I wish you all a Merry Christmas! :D


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